Datasets:

AIRI-NLP

/

quality_counter_new_2048

like 0

Follow

NLP Research Group 9

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

marble

How many times the word 'marble' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

stirrups

How many times the word 'stirrups' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

adopted

How many times the word 'adopted' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

idle

How many times the word 'idle' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

portion

How many times the word 'portion' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

content

How many times the word 'content' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

policemen

How many times the word 'policemen' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

drills

How many times the word 'drills' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

side

How many times the word 'side' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

sounded

How many times the word 'sounded' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

bravo

How many times the word 'bravo' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

london

How many times the word 'london' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

gradually

How many times the word 'gradually' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

required

How many times the word 'required' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

painting

How many times the word 'painting' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

innocent

How many times the word 'innocent' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

telephone

How many times the word 'telephone' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

pocket

How many times the word 'pocket' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

watch

How many times the word 'watch' appears in the text?

"Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Ars ne Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Ars ne Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Ars ne Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his r le with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Ars ne Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Ars ne Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Ars ne Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Ars ne Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy fa ades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Ars ne Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARS NE LUPIN." "Ars ne Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Ars ne Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Ars ne Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was

plays

How many times the word 'plays' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

past

How many times the word 'past' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

table

How many times the word 'table' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

honk

How many times the word 'honk' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

michael

How many times the word 'michael' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

rises

How many times the word 'rises' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

too

How many times the word 'too' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

puts

How many times the word 'puts' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

longlegs

How many times the word 'longlegs' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

wilson

How many times the word 'wilson' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

tung

How many times the word 'tung' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

song

How many times the word 'song' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

hand

How many times the word 'hand' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

reached

How many times the word 'reached' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

defeatist

How many times the word 'defeatist' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

lies

How many times the word 'lies' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

peace

How many times the word 'peace' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

collision

How many times the word 'collision' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

husband

How many times the word 'husband' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

hurts

How many times the word 'hurts' appears in the text?

"Beetlejuice," shooting script, by Michael McDowell; and Warren Skaaren BEETLE JUICE SECOND DRAFT SCREENPLAY REVISED 2-3-87 BY WARREN SKAAREN FROM AN ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BY MICHAEL MCDOWELL based on a story by Michael McDowell and Larry Wilson FADE IN: EXT. WINTER RIVER, CONNECTICUT - DAY A crisp and perfect New England town. Almost too neat to be real. No visible townspeople. CAMERA EXPLORES town. CAMERA FLIES over a rickety bridge -- PAST the Maitland Hardware and Appliance store -- PAST the church -- the Historical Society -- UP over the graveyard on the hill and finally -- To the Maitland house. The perfect Victorian house surveying the tiny village. Suddenly -- A GIANT DADDY LONGLEGS SPIDER mounts the crest of the hill beside the house, pauses to wave a spindly leg and then creeps menacingly on top of the Maitland house. ADAM (O.S..) Well, well, you're a big fella...! A hand -- as big as God's -- with a huge tweezer, gently reaches down out of the sky and lies, palm up, in the yard next to the house. Daddy Longlegs climbs into it. The hand rises into the sky again. INT. ATTIC - NEW ANGLE - DAY Reveals Winter River as a miniature town, while The Daddy Longlegs and the hand are normal size. Above the model are a homely representation of moon, sun, and stars -- a whole, tiny, mechanical universe to track the hours of the day. A large plat map of the city is prominent on the wall. The hand is ADAM MAITLAND'S. In his late 30's, he's a solid easy-going citizen. Capra used to make movies about him. Adam's model town sprawls across most of the attic space. Windows on either end of the attic shed good light into the warm room. Adam very carefully lifts the spider out the open window. Smiles as he drips him lightly on the breeze. CAMERA TILTS UP FROM THE WINDOW To see the real Winter River, laid out exactly as the model, at the foot of the hill. Adam breathes deeply and looks very pleased at the glorious town below him. ON HIS HUGE HAND AGAIN as it reaches into model and tweezes a tiny sign into the tiny window of Maitland's Hardware Store on main street. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND ARE ON VACATION! HOORAY! Adam leans down and eyes the sign. BARBARA (behind him) I'm ready! Adam turns to see entering: BARBARA MAITLAND, 35 -- a wholesome beauty who is mellowing well. She smiles at him. Perhaps a certain tinge of sadness about her, because they don't have children. ADAM (happy to see her) She's ready. BARBARA (eyeing the model) It looks great. ADAM (nodding) Thanks. She pushes a wrapped present across the table. BARBARA Happy vacation, honey! Adam smiles and gives her a present he's hidden under the table. He opens his present. A can of furniture oil. ADAM Manchurian Tung oil? (playfully grabs Barbara and kisses her) Where did you get it? BARBARA Helen got it for me in Oslo. There's enough to refinish the gateleg table and the cherry wardrobe... Adam hands Barbara a carefully-wrapped bundle -- she unwraps her gift... rolls of very expensive floral wallpaper. She cradles it in her arms like gold leaf. BARBARA Oh, Adam... it's beautiful. Adam nods, and embraces her. ADAM Enough to do the guest room... BARBARA (cooing) I'm so glad we're spending our vacation at home... (with a sudden resolve) ... I'm going to get started right now! ADAM (pulling her back) Whoa!... hold on... Barbara calms down, returning to Adam's embrace... as: PHONE RINGS -- They freeze, then grin. ADAM & BARBARA (unison) No one's home! HONK HONK outside. They look at each other horrified. Peer out the window. BARBARA Oh no. ADAM (pointing at her) It's your turn, darling. She shakes her head with resignation and goes downstairs. KNOCKING on door from below. INT. STAIRCASE AND KITCHEN - DAY CAMERA FOLLOWS Adam and Barbara downstairs. We see the rambling, old fashioned quality to the house. Clean, sentimental, warm and floral. Some rooms in progress. They continue down the main staircase past photos of themselves, old photos of the early days of Winter River, pictures and mementos of three generations in hardware. Barbara goes to the kitchen and Adam continues down to the basement. HER POV - A WOMAN JANE BUTTERFIELD -- tall, gawky and aggressive peeks in the kitchen door. She's divorced three husbands and buried another for good measure. She's ruthless but is weirdly, seamlessly pleasant. She waves a legal sized paper at them, starts to come inside. INT./EXT. KITCHEN DOOR Barbara makes dash for it and holds it just as Jane gets a foot in. Jane smiles wildly. JANE Hi, Barb! I'm glad I caught you. I heard you were on vacation! BARBARA That's right, Jane. Complete vacation. JANE Honey -- today I am three hundred fifty thousand dollars! BARBARA No! Jane, it is 6:45 in the morning! JANE Look at me, think of me as cash! This offer is really real! From a rich man in New York City who only saw a photograph! (rattles on) My buyer has just made a killing in condos in Manhattan, but he's got a little stress problem... (taps her head) ... so -- he wants to bring the wife and kid for the old peace and quiet. BARBARA That's what we're looking for, too. JANE Barbara Maitland, sweetie, just listen now. This house is too big. It really ought to be for a couple with a family. That hurts Barbara a little. She looks at Jane. JANE (continuing) Oh, honey... I didn't mean anything... it's just too big for you. Jane compulsively affixes her business card, face inside. in the windowpane. BARBARA (shutting door) 'Bye, Jane, see you in a few weeks. ADAM is humming happily, looking for paint brushes in the ground floor storeroom. He spies a cassette deck and looks through a stack of cassettes and plays one. It is an old INKSPOTS LOVE SONG. INT. GUEST ROOM - DAY Barbara is starting to paper the walls already. She frowns at the MUSIC. Goes to the door. BARBARA Oh, honey. You said no Inkspots on this vacation! It CLICKS OFF. She goes back into the room. INT. STOREROOM - DAY Adam puts away the tape but keeps humming the song. He opens the shutters on a small window. ON WINDOW... JANE (her huge face grinning at him) Boo! He jumps back, frightened. ADAM No, Jane. Adam closes the shutters as Jane affixes yet another card to the window. He continues his search for a brush. JANE exits jauntily, flapping her contract down the lawn. INT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Adam continues rummaging for a brush. Can't find it. ADAM (calling to distant Barbara) Honey, come with me down to the store? BARBARA (O.S.) What for? ADAM I need a good brush for this Tung oil and I want to pick up a piece of the model. Let's go early before anyone sees us. Barbara has already papered a few rolls in the guest room. BARBARA Okay, but let's hurry back. You just run in okay? EXT. THE HOUSE - DAY The Victorian house from the model "in the flesh." Adam stands by the station wagon. On the bumper of the car is a sticker reading: WARNING: I BRAKE FOR ANIMALS. Barbara gets in driver's side. They drive off. INT. THE CAR - DAY Adam dusts the inside of the dashboard. Clean Clean. BARBARA (preoccupied) Jane said we should sell the house to someone with a family. ADAM Ah, the ever-tactful Jane. Puts his hand on her shoulder. EXT. THE RIVER AND BRIDGE AND HILL - DAY We see the car coming down the hill toward the bridge. ADAM (V.O.) We should be flattered that she wants to sell our house. BARBARA (V.O.) I know... I just wish she'd leave us alone. ADAM (V.O.) Let's not think about it. We'll have a nice romantic, quiet, vacation. Here comes the bridge chorus. Car reaches the rickety covered bridge. Car shakes, bobbing up and down on every plank. ON Barbara and Adam TIGHT -- (they've done this routine before). They sing an old Johnny Mathis song. With a lot of vibrato. TOGETHER Chances are... When I wear a foolish grin... They laugh. EXT. DOWNTOWN WINTER RIVER - DAY Just like the model, but real. And populated. CAMERA PAUSES ON a gorgeous storefront with a brass lion out front. Sign above doors says -- BOZMAN BUILDING 1835 An old man polishes the lion as Maitlands drive by and wave. BARBARA (V.O.) Wave at the lion. ADAM (V.O.) Don't forget the balls, Ernie. BARBARA (V.O.) (embarrassed) Adam! Ernie looks around to see no one's looking and polishes the balls of the lion. CAMERA SPIES A JAUNTY DOG like Benji, peeing on the opposite corner of the lion. Maitlands drive by store with sign: JANE BUTTERFIELD ANTIQUES REAL ESTATE TRAVEL INT. ANTIQUE STORE REAL ESTATE OFFICE TRAVEL AGENCY - DAY The store is bursting with antiques of all sorts, travel brochures, photographs of houses for sale, and a serve-yourself Xerox machine. LITTLE JANE, her eight- year-old daughter is drudgingly making copies. Jane, phone in hand, rushes to the window to watch Maitlands drive by. Almost popping the cord when it reaches its end. She's waiting for the other party to pick up. JANE Y... ello. Mrs. Deetz? Well the condition is what we country folk call, fixin'... Yes, I think they are fixin' to accept another offer. Well maybe if you offer 390,000 they'll take it. EXT. MAITLAND HARDWARE - DAY Adam sprints up the steps of his lovely hardware store. OLD BILL, a slightly-addled ancient barber, is napping in a chair in front of his shop, next door to Adam's. Adam fumbles with the lock, not interested in conver- sation. He drops his keys, waking Old Bill. OLD BILL 'Morning, Adam. You need a haircut before your vacation? ADAM No thanks, Bill. OLD BILL How's the model coming? ADAM Good, Bill -- Good. Bill turns around and continues prattling even though Adam has entered. Bill prattles throughout. OLD BILL Y'know, I was thinkin'... you said Bozman built the foundation in 1835 but y'know his grandson came in here last week and said he found a bottle with an 1836 stamp in it plastered in the foundation. (suddenly disgusted at the memory) He's got hair down to his goddamned shoulders... INT. MAITLAND HARDWARE Adam pulls down a few good paintbrushes and carefully picks up a small model of the Bozman building. He walks out. Old Bill continues unabated. OLD BILL He said "Just give me a trim..." I took a scissors to him so fast... would've skimmed him clean if he hadn't... Adam strides by quickly to the car. ADAM See you, Bill. OLD BILL Right. EXT. MAITLAND'S CAR - DAY The Maitlands drive their car out of town. ON JANE EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE - DAY Car approaches. INT. CAR - DAY Five brushes sit on the seat next to Adam. He cradles small replica of the Bozman building, complete with brass lion. BARBARA It's a beauty. ADAM Yeah it turned out okay. We applied for a historical plaque for it. That'll be the third one on Main Street. BARBARA (jokingly) With all these historical landmarks in town, where are they going to put the condominiums? ADAM (grinning) Slow down there, honey... I don't want the vibration to weaken the model. BARBARA (nervous) Oh... I'm sorry... Barbara starts to apply the brakes. Just before the bridge the dog waddles out in the road. Stops to pee. Barbara swerves. As the car hits the rickety bridge, the speed is just a bit too much. Boards RATTLE and loosen, the car skews and catches in an open slot, careens to the right, then the left and the bridge. INT. CAR - DAY A piling has smashed through the window on the pas- senger side, crushing the upper part of Barbara's arm. She is wailing in pain and fright. Adam tries to help Barbara. He tries to get out of the car. None of this succeeds. EXT. BRIDGE AND RIVER - DAY The dog finishes, looks over at the car, walks across the bridge and steps on the one board which holds the car aloft. The car rocks back and forth for a moment, and then slides forward toward the water. EXT. CAR AND BRIDGE The car plunges into the rushing water. It floats for a moment, and then sinks like a stone. FADE TO BLACK. FADE IN: INT. BARBARA AND ADAM'S LIVING ROOM - DAY Quiet, still, expectant. There is a fire laid in the hearth. Suddenly and for no apparent reason it ignites and burns with a furious cheerfulness. Barbara and Adam enter, dazed, wet, and bedraggled. BARBARA Something like this always happens when we try to go on vacation. Always. Adam leads her toward the fire. ADAM You'll feel better when you're dry. He holds out his hands to be warmed. Barbara comes up beside him. All this time she's been holding her injured arm with the other hand. BARBARA This fire wasn't burning when we left the house. ADAM How's your arm? BARBARA I'm not sure. It feels... frozen. She holds her arms out to warm them. One hand catches on fire. BARBARA'S LEFT ARM They stare at it dumbfoundedly before Adam regains his senses and snatches it out of the fire. Two of the fingers are burning like candles, and Barbara indus- triously blows them out. BARBARA Oh, Adam. CUT TO: INT. LIVING ROOM: A FEW MINUTES LATER - DAY They are sitting on the couch together. Barbara is looking away slightly -- as one does when a doctor is drawing blood -- while Adam looks at her fingers. He frowns. He looks at his skin. It is pale. He looks at Barbara. ADAM You'd better sit down, hon. BARBARA I am sitting. ADAM I'll tell you what, Barbara. I don't think we survived that crash. BARBARA (pause) Oh, Adam. We're home. In our own house. Nonsense. I'll make some coffee. You get some more firewood. Adam gets up, a little absently, she follows him as he wanders to the front door. He peers out. ADAM Let's take things extra slow. Do you remember how we got back up here? Barbara tests her hand, clenches and unclenches her fist. BARBARA I'm fine. My arm works fine. Adam, exploring, opens the door, steps out on the front porch. EXT. FRONT PORCH - TWILIGHT Adam's face is painted with color of sunset. He stands atop the steps leading down to the front yard. Barbara stands just inside the open threshold, looking out worriedly. BARBARA (quiet sarcasm) The end of a perfect day. Adam starts to step down to the yard. ADAM Honey, I'm gonna go down to the bridge and retrace our steps. He steps off the last step into the yard and promptly disappears. BARBARA Adam! EXT. THE GREAT VOID Adam is nowhere. There's no ground, no sky, nothing to stand on or hold onto or give boundaries or distance. Just vast nothing. Not white and not colored either. NOISE OF A CLOCK TICKING. Adam looks about surprised, doesn't like what he doesn't see. He turns around to head back up the steps. There are no steps. ADAM Barbara? His VOICE ECHOES STRANGELY. He runs off a little in the distance, and calls again from over there. ADAM (continuing; quietly) Where are you? He goes even farther away. IN THE FOREGROUND an enormous geared wheel -- the size of a man -- rolls by, tearing up the unseamed ground. Something pours up out of the tear -- ooze or stuffing. Adam runs forward and stares after the wheel, which is now out of sight. TWO SMALLER GEARS looking very much like components of a giant watch -- spin along behind him. One of them veers suddenly toward him, and though Adam jumps out of the way, the gear snags his trouser leg and shreds it. LOUD TICKING. A PERFECTLY ENORMOUS GEAR comes barreling toward him. Adam leaps out of its way. The gear turns, fish-tailing, kicking up ooze and stuffing. Adam flings himself suddenly to the right, but trips into the path of the gear. As he's about to be crushed, he's suddenly jerked up to safety. EXT. FRONT PORCH - NIGHT It's Barbara who's grabbed him, and quite evidently saved his life -- not life, perhaps -- but existence. He's shaken, breathless. Barbara stares at him, as if wondering what he's just been through. ADAM (weakly) You saved my -- uh -- life... or whatever... BARBARA Two hours. ADAM What? BARBARA That's how long you were gone. ADAM (pondering that) ... Hmmm? INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Barbara leads Adam into the house. ADAM Anything happen while I was away? BARBARA Yes, it did. Yes, it did. I made a couple of small discoveries. BARBARA stands by the mirror over the hearth mantle. On the mantle is Barbara's prize collection of porcelain horses. Adam comes to stand beside her. They look into the mirror, and there is no reflection of them. Barbara picks up one of the horses, and trots it through the air. The horse is imaged in the mirror. BARBARA (continuing) There's that, and there's this. She picks up an ancient, leather-bound book. It's yellow and worn, about the size of the Boy Scout manual. CLOSEUP: Its title is HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED. ADAM (reading) Handbook for the recently diseased. BARBARA Deceased. I don't know where it came from. Look at the publisher. ADAM (he does and reads) Handbook for the Recently Deceased Press. BARBARA (finally admit- ting it) I don't think we survived the crash. INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT Adam is already in bed, reading from the handbook. Barbara is getting ready for bed -- going through a ritual of sorts that they practiced every night of their married lives. BARBARA I don't like situations like this. I hate it when I'm not in control. So just tell me the basics. ADAM This book isn't arranged that way. What do you want to know? BARBARA There are a thousand things... Why did you disappear when you walked off the front porch? Is this a punishment? Are we halfway to heaven or are we halfway to hell? And how long is this going to last? ADAM I don't see anything about "Rewards and Punishments" or "Heaven and Hell." (frustrated) This book reads like stereo instructions! Listen to this... 'Geographical and Temporal Perimeters... Functional perimeters vary from manifestation to manifestation." This is going to take some time. BARBARA paces, she trips on her wallpaper rolls. Kicks them. BARBARA I knew I'd never finish the guest room. Adam, we just can't stay in here forever! They look at each other, the question hangs in the air. Can't they? Adam stands and walks to the window. ADAM (thoughtfully) Maybe we should set up a normal routine. She looks at him like he's nuts. ADAM (continuing) I mean, let's try to nail down something in our lives. A regular schedule. We can keep track of time and go on with our projects up here in the attic. She shakes her head, exasperated. Flops down on the bed. BARBARA Oh, God, maybe this is all just a bad dream. ON ADAM - TIGHT - a somber look comes across his face. ADAM I'm afraid not, honey. Barbara looks up at him, questioningly. BARBARA Why? What's wrong? Adam? She stands and joins him at the window. THEIR POV THROUGH THE WINDOW In the distance we see an automobile funeral procession threading its way toward the nearby cemetery. Head- lights are on. We recognize Jane's car in the line. REVERSE ON BARBARA AND ADAM somber faces. TIGHTER ON PROCESSION It arrives at the gravesite. We see some familiar faces, Ernie, and Old Bill the Barber. Jane and little Jane watch as two identical coffins are carried to- gether, to two open graves. ON BARBARA AND ADAM She drops her head sadly on his shoulder. He leans his face slightly into hers. FADE OUT. FADE IN: INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam is setting up a small monument in the model town cemetery. It reads: ADAM AND BARBARA MAITLAND/UNITED IN LIFE/UNDIVIDED IN DEATH. ADAM I wish I had a better view of the cemetery from up here. I don't know which area is the best placement for us. Barbara, trying to clean, lets out a frustrated YELP! She paces. ADAM (continuing) Cabin fever, han? BARBARA I can't clean anything. The vacuum is out in the garage. I can't leave the house. Why don't they tell us something? Where are all the other dead people in the world? Why is it just you and me? ADAM Maybe this is heaven. BARBARA (looking at the dusty walls) In heaven there wouldn't be dust on the wallpaper. ADAM Hon... I didn't want to die, but really, this is fine with me. Look, we never have to wash dishes again. BARBARA Dishes? We haven't eaten in three weeks! Adam, I'm not like you. I really need to be around people, get out to the church and go grocery shopping. ADAM But I'm not hungry, are you? Barbara shakes her head and picks up the Handbook and pages through it desperately. BARBARA I keep having this feeling that something has got to happen. CAR DOOR SLAMS outside. Adam and Barbara look at one another. Run to window. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane Butterfield is staring up at the old house. INT. ATTIC - DAY Adam, from his angle, can just barely see her. ADAM God, it's Jane. BARBARA What's she doing here? ADAM I don't know. (shouting) Jane, Jane, up here! EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Unhearing, Jane heads for car. SOUND OF WIND UP. Blows her dress. Little Jane straggles along with her like an apprentice. INT. ATTIC - DAY Barbara watches Adam, and shakes her head. He stops. BARBARA She can't see you, right? Adam nods. BARBARA (continuing) In the book, Rule Number Two: the living usually won't see the dead. ADAM Won't? Or can't? BARBARA Just says "won't." Wait a minute. Here it says "the living are arrogant... they think they'll never die, so they refuse to see the dead." ADAM Arrogant. That's Jane all right... Barbara sighs and nods. BARBARA At least we won't have to worry about her. Adam smiles and goes to his model. EXT. MAITLAND HOUSE - DAY Jane drives away. CAMERA HINGES to see a FOR SALE sign. Across it -- another smaller banner. It reads: SOLD! CUT TO: INT. MASTER BEDROOM - MORNING The Maitlands are asleep. CAMERA EXPLORES the room a bit. It is getting slightly tatty. Adam rolls over, pulling the covers off Barbara. We see: ON BARBARA -- she is hovering off the side of the bed. An OMINOUS RUMBLE -- like a 4.0 earthquake shakes the house. GLASS RATTLES, the ceramic horses on the mantelpiece jump around. Barbara falls to the floor. They look at one another with horror. They leap up and run downstairs. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY The RUMBLE BUILDS TO A CLIMAX, there is a LOUD METALLIC SQUEAL, and then a CRASH... just as Barbara and Adam arrive. THE FRONT DOOR smashes open revealing a moving van ramp. A TEN-FOOT ELECTRIC-BLUE ITALIAN LEATHER COUCH slides smoothly down the ramp. On the couch sits DELIA DEETZ. The couch CRASHES into the base of the staircase, smashing the newel post and several of the balusters. Barbara cringes. One of the balusters falls at Delia's side. She grasps it like a scepter. Two MOVING MEN rush down the ramp. MOVING MAN #1 Sorry about that, Mrs. Deetz. DELIA Don't worry. It was going anyway. Delia is relentlessly New York, relentlessly fashion- able, relentlessly thin -- totally self assured. She is also a woman with a mission -- to gut Barbara and Adam's house and remake it in her own very upscale image. Delia's gaze is on the living room, but she looks through Adam and Barbara as if they weren't even there (which to her eyes they're not). Still holding the baluster, Delia gets up off the couch and moves into the living room, surveying it with an odd mixture of ambition, and resolution. BEHIND HER the two Moving Men bring in a matching blue leather armchair. In the armchair sits LYDIA DEETZ. Lydia, age 14, is a pretty girl, but wan, pale and overly-dramatic, dressed as she is in her favorite color, black. She's a combination of a little death rocker and an 80's version of Edward Gorey's little girls. She has a couple of expensive cameras around her neck -- and is already taking photographs of the moving men. Lydia is cool, Lydia is sullen, Lydia is her father's daughter by his first marriage. Lydia is usually about half-pissed off. But underneath... we like her a lot. The Moving Men still hold up the chair, waiting for Delia to decide where she wants it. DELIA (continuing) Jesus. Who lived here? The Waltons? TIGHT ON Lydia -- calmly surveys the house. Delia signals wearily that the Moving Men can put the chair down anywhere. DELIA (continuing) Get all this other crap out of here. Lydia hops down out of the chair, and comes farther into the living room. DELIA (continuing) Where is your father?... probably in the kitchen. That's the cue for CHARLES DEETZ, who comes in through the swinging door, and across the dining room... a ner- vous but basically pleasant man, CHARLES DEETZ is intent on attacking rest and relaxation with the same vengeance that earned him millions in real estate. CHARLES The noise in that kitchen. Noisy refrigerator, noisy faucets... We'll have to replace it all. I want no humming in the house. LYDIA exploring on her own, gazes around the living room with growing pleasure, she backs up for a good angle to photograph. CAMERA HINGES -- She is standing with her back right up to Barbara -- who is horrified at this creature. Charles enters. CHARLES (to Lydia) What do you think, honey? LYDIA Delia hates it. Lydia gazes at a dusty maze of spider webs. LYDIA (continuing) I could live here. A movement makes Lydia turn around and scream. It is Delia. Not Barbara. DELIA Settle down, Lydia. I wonder where we are going to get counseling for you out here. A VIOLENT FALSETTO SCREAM turns the Deetz family's attention to the front windows. OTHO (O.S.) Help! Oh help! OTHO'S MASSIVE BODY Wedged in the window frame. The short, stubby legs, dressed in the world's largest pair of Georgia Armani slacks, protrude into the living room, waving fran- tically. Expensive Italian loafers are kicked off the feet, revealing a pair of expensive patterned socks. By their feet shall ye know them. DELIA It's Otho! CHARLES Otho, why didn't you just come in the door? Otho's voice comes as if from a great distance. OTHO (O.S.) It's bad luck. And I believe hugely in luck. DELIA Hold your breath and we'll pull. Delia turns to Charles and Lydia for help -- doesn't get it -- and at last pulls Otho into the living room single-handedly. All this while the Moving Men are variously carting out the handsome old furniture and bringing in the hideous new furniture. Otho is Robert Morley at his most obscenely fat and faggoty. But he's not all fat and fun -- this customer carries nasty emotional weight as well. OTHO holds onto the curtains for support as he is pulled through the window. And when he is at last all the way through, and upright on his feet, he suddenly gives a tremendous yank. The whole drapery apparatus, including valences, crashes to the floor. OTHO That was the single most unattractive window treatment I have ever seen in the entire of my existence. DELIA (starry eyed) I'm so glad you could leave the city to consult me, Otho. Otho is looking around the room with an eye of quiet horror. OTHO Yes, of course you are. Well, Otho had an intuition. Call it a hunch -- that it was going to be a fabled monstrosity of a house. And it certainly is. Charles, you're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, so you can afford what I'm going to have to do to this place. We are talking from the ground ups'ville! CHARLES That's fine, Otho. Just keep me out of it. I am here to relax and clip coupons. And goddamnit, I mean to do it. He exits to find solace in a quiet corner of his house. During this speech, Otho has been surreptitiously pos- ing for Lydia's camera. She clicks the shutter. OTHO (ignoring her) Is the rest of the house as bad as this? DELIA The rest of the house is probably worse. When can you and I get started? OTHO No time like the present, as my wicked stepmother used to say. Out of the pockets of his size 56 Georgia Armani jacket, Otho takes two cans of spray paint -- the kind the graffiti artists use -- and shakes them as if they were castanets. They certainly sound like it. OTHO Delia, let's get this show on the road. INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY At one end, near the stairs leading up to the attic, Barbara and Adam are slumped against opposite walls. BARBARA Adam, we are in hell. I hate these people. ADAM They make Jane look good. BARBARA Is this a punishment for something we did in life? What can we do? ADAM (determined) We're not completely helpless. I've been reading the book. There's a word for people in our predicament, honey. Barbara looks at him. BARBARA (continuing) Ghosts! Barbara is shocked at the reality. Otho and Delia come up the stairs at the end of the hallway. OTHO We're dealing with negative entertainment potential

objected

How many times the word 'objected' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

host

How many times the word 'host' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

no

How many times the word 'no' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

theodore

How many times the word 'theodore' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

revised

How many times the word 'revised' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

uh

How many times the word 'uh' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

clusters

How many times the word 'clusters' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

american

How many times the word 'american' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

mine

How many times the word 'mine' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

mentioned

How many times the word 'mentioned' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

me

How many times the word 'me' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

sky

How many times the word 'sky' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

hypnotize

How many times the word 'hypnotize' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

pain

How many times the word 'pain' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

rough

How many times the word 'rough' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

housewife

How many times the word 'housewife' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

smoothly

How many times the word 'smoothly' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

khalid

How many times the word 'khalid' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

overtopping

How many times the word 'overtopping' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

turkish

How many times the word 'turkish' appears in the text?

"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought of thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid, wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh, I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O Khalid.-- "There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's servant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?' I ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the shepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her memory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid, is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march. "At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends and cultivates better than he does his children. "When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the conventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest for the night.-- "Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American artist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large photograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States. And knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks English even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty years. "After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture." Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself, saying, "I am waygone from the day's wayfaring." The instrument of torture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a mattress is spread for him on the floor. "In the morning," he continues, "mine host accompanies me through the populous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the clay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these foundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria. "We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which serpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow, by Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil. "The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very honourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know personally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of his employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand over the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many edifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces the purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest told me about his usurious propensities. "What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery, on extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness. "But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance of health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a marvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back, as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee more; farewell. "I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more prosperous under its r gime, I can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin! "I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The spectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me, reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only thus is reconciliation possible. "Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to engage the interest of arch ologists. Let the P res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are the same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery. "At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and the same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and the Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology triumphs in its evolution. "Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with their dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry them in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them? This savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen. "Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were content in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the peptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone through the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and dishes I praise the good gods. "And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door before which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry overnight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou wouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and refreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down, therefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the furniture and provision of mine hostess. "Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his day's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters, salaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and olives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all we have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake of the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the tray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in taking hers, tells me na vely, and with a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and spark. "She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even write a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies. "'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a eulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never live!' "She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at length of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her mother. "Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of the village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the conventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed arches in the fa ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I had made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores. "'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is curious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the castle, which is building, is their new home. "Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's sister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou sayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities? Yes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers her for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was an infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with him--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish. "We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow; and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot Franje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the sisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what sisters! "I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs in which the arch ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch ology for arch ology's sake is pardonable; arch ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch ology for lucre is abominable. "At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of

cloak

How many times the word 'cloak' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

tremor

How many times the word 'tremor' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

investigate

How many times the word 'investigate' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

chambre

How many times the word 'chambre' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

skips

How many times the word 'skips' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

feeling

How many times the word 'feeling' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

bit

How many times the word 'bit' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

dickens

How many times the word 'dickens' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

midnight

How many times the word 'midnight' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

affect

How many times the word 'affect' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

clustered

How many times the word 'clustered' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

recall

How many times the word 'recall' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

drones

How many times the word 'drones' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

lightly

How many times the word 'lightly' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

disgorge

How many times the word 'disgorge' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

risest

How many times the word 'risest' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

shot

How many times the word 'shot' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

cavil

How many times the word 'cavil' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

bell

How many times the word 'bell' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

mind

How many times the word 'mind' appears in the text?

"Rotten" was the adjective I had employed to describe it, and you may recall that I mused a bit sadly, considering the idea conclusive proof of the general breakdown of a once fine mind. But now it somehow began to look as if it might have possibilities. The fact of the matter was that I had about reached the stage where I was prepared to try anything once, however goofy. "Just run through that wheeze again, Jeeves," I said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking it cuckoo, but it may be that I missed some of the finer shades." "Your criticism of it at the time, sir, was that it was too elaborate, but I do not think it is so in reality. As I see it, sir, the occupants of the house, hearing the fire bell ring, will suppose that a conflagration has broken out." I nodded. One could follow the train of thought. "Yes, that seems reasonable." "Whereupon Mr. Glossop will hasten to save Miss Angela, while Mr. Fink-Nottle performs the same office for Miss Bassett." "Is that based on psychology?" "Yes, sir. Possibly you may recollect that it was an axiom of the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, that the instinct of everyone, upon an alarm of fire, is to save the object dearest to them." "It seems to me that there is a grave danger of seeing Tuppy come out carrying a steak-and-kidney pie, but resume, Jeeves, resume. You think that this would clean everything up?" "The relations of the two young couples could scarcely continue distant after such an occurrence, sir." "Perhaps you're right. But, dash it, if we go ringing fire bells in the night watches, shan't we scare half the domestic staff into fits? There is one of the housemaids--Jane, I believe--who already skips like the high hills if I so much as come on her unexpectedly round a corner." "A neurotic girl, sir, I agree. I have noticed her. But by acting promptly we should avoid such a contingency. The entire staff, with the exception of Monsieur Anatole, will be at the ball at Kingham Manor tonight." "Of course. That just shows the condition this thing has reduced me to. Forget my own name next. Well, then, let's just try to envisage. Bong goes the bell. Gussie rushes and grabs the Bassett.... Wait. Why shouldn't she simply walk downstairs?" "You are overlooking the effect of sudden alarm on the feminine temperament, sir." "That's true." "Miss Bassett's impulse, I would imagine, sir, would be to leap from her window." "Well, that's worse. We don't want her spread out in a sort of _pur e_ on the lawn. It seems to me that the flaw in this scheme of yours, Jeeves, is that it's going to litter the garden with mangled corpses." "No, sir. You will recall that Mr. Travers's fear of burglars has caused him to have stout bars fixed to all the windows." "Of course, yes. Well, it sounds all right," I said, though still a bit doubtfully. "Quite possibly it may come off. But I have a feeling that it will slip up somewhere. However, I am in no position to cavil at even a 100 to 1 shot. I will adopt this policy of yours, Jeeves, though, as I say, with misgivings. At what hour would you suggest bonging the bell?" "Not before midnight, sir." "That is to say, some time after midnight." "Yes, sir." "Right-ho, then. At 12.30 on the dot, I will bong." "Very good, sir." -22- I Don't know why it is, but there's something about the rural districts after dark that always has a rummy effect on me. In London I can stay out till all hours and come home with the milk without a tremor, but put me in the garden of a country house after the strength of the company has gone to roost and the place is shut up, and a sort of goose-fleshy feeling steals over me. The night wind stirs the tree-tops, twigs crack, bushes rustle, and before I know where I am, the morale has gone phut and I'm expecting the family ghost to come sneaking up behind me, making groaning noises. Dashed unpleasant, the whole thing, and if you think it improves matters to know that you are shortly about to ring the loudest fire bell in England and start an all-hands-to-the-pumps panic in that quiet, darkened house, you err. I knew all about the Brinkley Court fire bell. The dickens of a row it makes. Uncle Tom, in addition to not liking burglars, is a bloke who has always objected to the idea of being cooked in his sleep, so when he bought the place he saw to it that the fire bell should be something that might give you heart failure, but which you couldn't possibly mistake for the drowsy chirping of a sparrow in the ivy. When I was a kid and spent my holidays at Brinkley, we used to have fire drills after closing time, and many is the night I've had it jerk me out of the dreamless like the Last Trump. I confess that the recollection of what this bell could do when it buckled down to it gave me pause as I stood that night at 12.30 p.m. prompt beside the outhouse where it was located. The sight of the rope against the whitewashed wall and the thought of the bloodsome uproar which was about to smash the peace of the night into hash served to deepen that rummy feeling to which I have alluded. Moreover, now that I had had time to meditate upon it, I was more than ever defeatist about this scheme of Jeeves's. Jeeves seemed to take it for granted that Gussie and Tuppy, faced with a hideous fate, would have no thought beyond saving the Bassett and Angela. I could not bring myself to share his sunny confidence. I mean to say, I know how moments when they're faced with a hideous fate affect chaps. I remember Freddie Widgeon, one of the most chivalrous birds in the Drones, telling me how there was an alarm of fire once at a seaside hotel where he was staying and, so far from rushing about saving women, he was down the escape within ten seconds of the kick-off, his mind concerned with but one thing--viz., the personal well-being of F. Widgeon. As far as any idea of doing the delicately nurtured a bit of good went, he tells me, he was prepared to stand underneath and catch them in blankets, but no more. Why, then, should this not be so with Augustus Fink-Nottle and Hildebrand Glossop? Such were my thoughts as I stood toying with the rope, and I believe I should have turned the whole thing up, had it not been that at this juncture there floated into my mind a picture of the Bassett hearing that bell for the first time. Coming as a wholly new experience, it would probably startle her into a decline. And so agreeable was this reflection that I waited no longer, but seized the rope, braced the feet and snapped into it. Well, as I say, I hadn't been expecting that bell to hush things up to any great extent. Nor did it. The last time I had heard it, I had been in my room on the other side of the house, and even so it had hoiked me out of bed as if something had exploded under me. Standing close to it like this, I got the full force and meaning of the thing, and I've never heard anything like it in my puff. I rather enjoy a bit of noise, as a general rule. I remember Cats-meat Potter-Pirbright bringing a police rattle into the Drones one night and loosing it off behind my chair, and I just lay back and closed my eyes with a pleasant smile, like someone in a box at the opera. And the same applies to the time when my Aunt Agatha's son, young Thos., put a match to the parcel of Guy Fawkes Day fireworks to see what would happen. But the Brinkley Court fire bell was too much for me. I gave about half a dozen tugs, and then, feeling that enough was enough, sauntered round to the front lawn to ascertain what solid results had been achieved. Brinkley Court had given of its best. A glance told me that we were playing to capacity. The eye, roving to and fro, noted here Uncle Tom in a purple dressing gown, there Aunt Dahlia in the old blue and yellow. It also fell upon Anatole, Tuppy, Gussie, Angela, the Bassett and Jeeves, in the order named. There they all were, present and correct. But--and this was what caused me immediate concern--I could detect no sign whatever that there had been any rescue work going on. What I had been hoping, of course, was to see Tuppy bending solicitously over Angela in one corner, while Gussie fanned the Bassett with a towel in the other. Instead of which, the Bassett was one of the group which included Aunt Dahlia and Uncle Tom and seemed to be busy trying to make Anatole see the bright side, while Angela and Gussie were, respectively, leaning against the sundial with a peeved look and sitting on the grass rubbing a barked shin. Tuppy was walking up and down the path, all by himself. A disturbing picture, you will admit. It was with a rather imperious gesture that I summoned Jeeves to my side. "Well, Jeeves?" "Sir?" I eyed him sternly. "Sir?" forsooth! "It's no good saying 'Sir?' Jeeves. Look round you. See for yourself. Your scheme has proved a bust." "Certainly it would appear that matters have not arranged themselves quite as we anticipated, sir." "We?" "As I had anticipated, sir." "That's more like it. Didn't I tell you it would be a flop?" "I remember that you did seem dubious, sir." "Dubious is no word for it, Jeeves. I hadn't a scrap of faith in the idea from the start. When you first mooted it, I said it was rotten, and I was right. I'm not blaming you, Jeeves. It is not your fault that you have sprained your brain. But after this--forgive me if I hurt your feelings, Jeeves----I shall know better than to allow you to handle any but the simplest and most elementary problems. It is best to be candid about this, don't you think? Kindest to be frank and straightforward?" "Certainly, sir." "I mean, the surgeon's knife, what?" "Precisely, sir." "I consider----" "If you will pardon me for interrupting you, sir, I fancy Mrs. Travers is endeavouring to attract your attention." And at this moment a ringing "Hoy!" which could have proceeded only from the relative in question, assured me that his view was correct. "Just step this way a moment, Attila, if you don't mind," boomed that well-known--and under certain conditions, well-loved--voice, and I moved over. I was not feeling unmixedly at my ease. For the first time it was beginning to steal upon me that I had not prepared a really good story in support of my questionable behaviour in ringing fire bells at such an hour, and I have known Aunt Dahlia to express herself with a hearty freedom upon far smaller provocation. She exhibited, however, no signs of violence. More a sort of frozen calm, if you know what I mean. You could see that she was a woman who had suffered. "Well, Bertie, dear," she said, "here we all are." "Quite," I replied guardedly. "Nobody missing, is there?" "I don't think so." "Splendid. So much healthier for us out in the open like this than frowsting in bed. I had just dropped off when you did your bell-ringing act. For it was you, my sweet child, who rang that bell, was it not?" "I did ring the bell, yes." "Any particular reason, or just a whim?" "I thought there was a fire." "What gave you that impression, dear?" "I thought I saw flames." "Where, darling? Tell Aunt Dahlia." "In one of the windows." "I see. So we have all been dragged out of bed and scared rigid because you have been seeing things." Here Uncle Tom made a noise like a cork coming out of a bottle, and Anatole, whose moustache had hit a new low, said something about "some apes" and, if I am not mistaken, a "_rogommier_"--whatever that is. "I admit I was mistaken. I am sorry." "Don't apologize, ducky. Can't you see how pleased we all are? What were you doing out here, anyway?" "Just taking a stroll." "I see. And are you proposing to continue your stroll?" "No, I think I'll go in now." "That's fine. Because I was thinking of going in, too, and I don't believe I could sleep knowing you were out here giving rein to that powerful imagination of yours. The next thing that would happen would be that you would think you saw a pink elephant sitting on the drawing-room window-sill and start throwing bricks at it.... Well, come on, Tom, the entertainment seems to be over.... But wait. The newt king wishes a word with us.... Yes, Mr. Fink-Nottle?" Gussie, as he joined our little group, seemed upset about something. "I say!" "Say on, Augustus." "I say, what are we going to do?" "Speaking for myself, I intend to return to bed." "But the door's shut." "What door?" "The front door. Somebody must have shut it." "Then I shall open it." "But it won't open." "Then I shall try another door." "But all the other doors are shut." "What? Who shut them?" "I don't know." I advanced a theory! "The wind?" Aunt Dahlia's eyes met mine. "Don't try me too high," she begged. "Not now, precious." And, indeed, even as I spoke, it did strike me that the night was pretty still. Uncle Tom said we must get in through a window. Aunt Dahlia sighed a bit. "How? Could Lloyd George do it, could Winston do it, could Baldwin do it? No. Not since you had those bars of yours put on." "Well, well, well. God bless my soul, ring the bell, then." "The fire bell?" "The door bell." "To what end, Thomas? There's nobody in the house. The servants are all at Kingham." "But, confound it all, we can't stop out here all night." "Can't we? You just watch us. There is nothing--literally nothing--which a country house party can't do with Attila here operating on the premises. Seppings presumably took the back-door key with him. We must just amuse ourselves till he comes back." Tuppy made a suggestion: "Why not take out one of the cars and drive over to Kingham and get the key from Seppings?" It went well. No question about that. For the first time, a smile lit up Aunt Dahlia's drawn face. Uncle Tom grunted approvingly. Anatole said something in Proven al that sounded complimentary. And I thought I detected even on Angela's map a slight softening. "A very excellent idea," said Aunt Dahlia. "One of the best. Nip round to the garage at once." After Tuppy had gone, some extremely flattering things were said about his intelligence and resource, and there was a disposition to draw rather invidious comparisons between him and Bertram. Painful for me, of course, but the ordeal didn't last long, for it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he was with us again. Tuppy seemed perturbed. "I say, it's all off." "Why?" "The garage is locked." "Unlock it." "I haven't the key." "Shout, then, and wake Waterbury." "Who's Waterbury?" "The chauffeur, ass. He sleeps over the garage." "But he's gone to the dance at Kingham." It was the final wallop. Until this moment, Aunt Dahlia had been able to preserve her frozen calm. The dam now burst. The years rolled away from her, and she was once more the Dahlia Wooster of the old yoicks-and-tantivy days--the emotional, free-speaking girl who had so often risen in her stirrups to yell derogatory personalities at people who were heading hounds. "Curse all dancing chauffeurs! What on earth does a chauffeur want to dance for? I mistrusted that man from the start. Something told me he was a dancer. Well, this finishes it. We're out here till breakfast-time. If those blasted servants come back before eight o'clock, I shall be vastly surprised. You won't get Seppings away from a dance till you throw him out. I know him. The jazz'll go to his head, and he'll stand clapping and demanding encores till his hands blister. Damn all dancing butlers! What is Brinkley Court? A respectable English country house or a crimson dancing school? One might as well be living in the middle of the Russian Ballet. Well, all right. If we must stay out here, we must. We shall all be frozen stiff, except"--here she directed at me not one of her friendliest glances----"except dear old Attila, who is, I observe, well and warmly clad. We will resign ourselves to the prospect of freezing to death like the Babes in the Wood, merely expressing a dying wish that our old pal Attila will see that we are covered with leaves. No doubt he will also toll that fire bell of his as a mark of respect--And what might you want, my good man?" She broke off, and stood glaring at Jeeves. During the latter portion of her address, he had been standing by in a respectful manner, endeavouring to catch the speaker's eye. "If I might make a suggestion, madam." I am not saying that in the course of our long association I have always found myself able to view Jeeves with approval. There are aspects of his character which have frequently caused coldnesses to arise between us. He is one of those fellows who, if you give them a thingummy, take a what-d'you-call-it. His work is often raw, and he has been known to allude to me as "mentally negligible". More than once, as I have shown, it has been my painful task to squelch in him a tendency to get uppish and treat the young master as a serf or peon. These are grave defects. But one thing I have never failed to hand the man. He is magnetic. There is about him something that seems to soothe and hypnotize. To the best of my knowledge, he has never encountered a charging rhinoceros, but should this contingency occur, I have no doubt that the animal, meeting his eye, would check itself in mid-stride, roll over and lie purring with its legs in the air. At any rate he calmed down Aunt Dahlia, the nearest thing to a charging rhinoceros, in under five seconds. He just stood there looking respectful, and though I didn't time the thing--not having a stop-watch on me--I should say it wasn't more than three seconds and a quarter before her whole manner underwent an astounding change for the better. She melted before one's eyes. "Jeeves! You haven't got an idea?" "Yes, madam." "That great brain of yours has really clicked as ever in the hour of need?" "Yes, madam." "Jeeves," said Aunt Dahlia in a shaking voice, "I am sorry I spoke so abruptly. I was not myself. I might have known that you would not come simply trying to make conversation. Tell us this idea of yours, Jeeves. Join our little group of thinkers and let us hear what you have to say. Make yourself at home, Jeeves, and give us the good word. Can you really get us out of this mess?" "Yes, madam, if one of the gentlemen would be willing to ride a bicycle." "A bicycle?" "There is a bicycle in the gardener's shed in the kitchen garden, madam. Possibly one of the gentlemen might feel disposed to ride over to Kingham Manor and procure the back-door key from Mr. Seppings." "Splendid, Jeeves!" "Thank you, madam." "Wonderful!" "Thank you, madam." "Attila!" said Aunt Dahlia, turning and speaking in a quiet, authoritative manner. I had been expecting it. From the very moment those ill-judged words had passed the fellow's lips, I had had a presentiment that a determined effort would be made to elect me as the goat, and I braced myself to resist and obstruct. And as I was about to do so, while I was in the very act of summoning up all my eloquence to protest that I didn't know how to ride a bike and couldn't possibly learn in the brief time at my disposal, I'm dashed if the man didn't go and nip me in the bud. "Yes, madam, Mr. Wooster would perform the task admirably. He is an expert cyclist. He has often boasted to me of his triumphs on the wheel." I hadn't. I hadn't done anything of the sort. It's simply monstrous how one's words get twisted. All I had ever done was to mention to him--casually, just as an interesting item of information, one day in New York when we were watching the six-day bicycle race--that at the age of fourteen, while spending my holidays with a vicar of sorts who had been told off to teach me Latin, I had won the Choir Boys' Handicap at the local school treat. A different thing from boasting of one's triumphs on the wheel. I mean, he was a man of the world and must have known that the form of school treats is never of the hottest. And, if I'm not mistaken, I had specifically told him that on the occasion referred to I had received half a lap start and that Willie Punting, the odds-on favourite to whom the race was expected to be a gift, had been forced to retire, owing to having pinched his elder brother's machine without asking the elder brother, and the elder brother coming along just as the pistol went and giving him one on the side of the head and taking it away from him, thus rendering him a scratched-at-the-post non-starter. Yet, from the way he talked, you would have thought I was one of those chaps in sweaters with medals all over them, whose photographs bob up from time to time in the illustrated press on the occasion of their having ridden from Hyde Park Corner to Glasgow in three seconds under the hour, or whatever it is. And as if this were not bad enough, Tuppy had to shove his oar in. "That's right," said Tuppy. "Bertie has always been a great cyclist. I remember at Oxford he used to take all his clothes off on bump-supper nights and ride around the quad, singing comic songs. Jolly fast he used to go too." "Then he can go jolly fast now," said Aunt Dahlia with animation. "He can't go too fast for me. He may also sing comic songs, if he likes.... And if you wish to take your clothes off, Bertie, my lamb, by all means do so. But whether clothed or in the nude, whether singing comic songs or not singing comic songs, get a move on." I found speech: "But I haven't ridden for years." "Then it's high time you began again." "I've probably forgotten how to ride." "You'll soon get the knack after you've taken a toss or two. Trial and error. The only way." "But it's miles to Kingham." "So the sooner you're off, the better." "But----" "Bertie, dear." "But, dash it----" "Bertie, darling." "Yes, but dash it----" "Bertie, my sweet." And so it was arranged. Presently I was moving sombrely off through the darkness, Jeeves at my side, Aunt Dahlia calling after me something about trying to imagine myself the man who brought the good news from Ghent to Aix. The first I had heard of the chap. "So, Jeeves," I said, as we reached the shed, and my voice was cold and bitter, "this is what your great scheme has accomplished! Tuppy, Angela, Gussie and the Bassett not on speaking terms, and self faced with an eight-mile ride----" "Nine, I believe, sir." "--a nine-mile ride, and another nine-mile ride back." "I am sorry, sir." "No good being sorry now. Where is this foul bone-shaker?" "I will bring it out, sir." He did so. I eyed it sourly. "Where's the lamp?" "I fear there is no lamp, sir." "No lamp?" "No, sir." "But I may come a fearful stinker without a lamp. Suppose I barge into something." I broke off and eyed him frigidly. "You smile, Jeeves. The thought amuses you?" "I beg your pardon, sir. I was thinking of a tale my Uncle Cyril used to tell me as a child. An absurd little story, sir, though I confess that I have always found it droll. According to my Uncle Cyril, two men named Nicholls and Jackson set out to ride to Brighton on a tandem bicycle, and were so unfortunate as to come into collision with a brewer's van. And when the rescue party arrived on the scene of the accident, it was discovered that they had been hurled together with such force that it was impossible to sort them out at all adequately. The keenest eye could not discern which portion of the fragments was Nicholls and which Jackson. So they collected as much as they could, and called it Nixon. I remember laughing very much at that story when I was a child, sir." I had to pause a moment to master my feelings. "You did, eh?" "Yes, sir." "You thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "And your Uncle Cyril thought it funny?" "Yes, sir." "Golly, what a family! Next time you meet your Uncle Cyril, Jeeves, you can tell him from me that his sense of humour is morbid and unpleasant." "He is dead, sir." "Thank heaven for that.... Well, give me the blasted machine." "Very good, sir." "Are the tyres inflated?" "Yes, sir." "The nuts firm, the brakes in order, the sprockets running true with the differential gear?" "Yes, sir." "Right ho, Jeeves." In Tuppy's statement that, when at the University of Oxford, I had been known to ride a bicycle in the nude about the quadrangle of our mutual college, there had been, I cannot deny, a certain amount of substance. Correct, however, though his facts were, so far as they went, he had not told all. What he had omitted to mention was that I had invariably been well oiled at the time, and when in that condition a chap is capable of feats at which in cooler moments his reason would rebel. Stimulated by the juice, I believe, men have even been known to ride alligators. As I started now to pedal out into the great world, I was icily sober, and the old skill, in consequence, had deserted me entirely. I found myself wobbling badly, and all the stories I had ever heard of nasty bicycle accidents came back to me with a rush, headed by Jeeves's Uncle Cyril's cheery little anecdote about Nicholls and Jackson. Pounding wearily through the darkness, I found myself at a loss to fathom the mentality of men like Jeeves's Uncle Cyril. What on earth he could see funny in a disaster which had apparently involved the complete extinction of a human creature--or, at any rate, of half a human creature and half another human creature--was more than I could understand. To me, the thing was one of the most poignant tragedies that had ever been brought to my attention, and I have no doubt that I should have continued to brood over it for quite a time, had my thoughts not been diverted by the sudden necessity of zigzagging sharply in order to avoid a pig in the fairway. For a moment it looked like being real Nicholls-and-Jackson stuff, but, fortunately, a quick zig on my part, coinciding with an adroit zag on the part of the pig, enabled me to win through, and I continued my ride safe, but with the heart fluttering like a captive bird. The effect of this narrow squeak upon me was to shake the nerve to the utmost. The fact that pigs were abroad in the night seemed to bring home to me the perilous nature of my enterprise. It set me thinking of all the other things that could happen to a man out and about on a velocipede without a lamp after lighting-up time. In particular, I recalled the statement of a pal of mine that in certain sections of the rural districts goats were accustomed to stray across the road to the extent of their chains, thereby forming about as sound a booby trap as one could well wish. He mentioned, I remember, the case of a friend of his whose machine got entangled with a goat chain and who was dragged seven miles--like skijoring in Switzerland--so that he was never the same man again. And there was one chap who ran into an elephant, left over from a travelling circus. Indeed, taking it for all in all, it seemed to me that, with the possible exception of being bitten by sharks, there was virtually no front-page disaster that could not happen to a fellow, once he had allowed his dear ones to override his better judgment and shove him out into the great unknown on a push-bike, and I am not ashamed to confess that, taking it by and large, the amount of quailing I did from this point on was pretty considerable. However, in respect to goats and elephants, I must say things panned out unexpectedly well. Oddly enough, I encountered neither. But when you have said that you have said everything, for in every other way the conditions could scarcely have been fouler. Apart from the ceaseless anxiety of having to keep an eye skinned for elephants, I found myself much depressed

alarm

How many times the word 'alarm' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

charles

How many times the word 'charles' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

me

How many times the word 'me' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

apart

How many times the word 'apart' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

rattlesnake

How many times the word 'rattlesnake' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

genial

How many times the word 'genial' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

coffee

How many times the word 'coffee' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

gentle

How many times the word 'gentle' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

live

How many times the word 'live' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

machine

How many times the word 'machine' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

populous

How many times the word 'populous' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

well

How many times the word 'well' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

warmth

How many times the word 'warmth' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

rumble

How many times the word 'rumble' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

nearer

How many times the word 'nearer' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

guess

How many times the word 'guess' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

millionaire

How many times the word 'millionaire' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

afraid

How many times the word 'afraid' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

certainly

How many times the word 'certainly' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

vintner

How many times the word 'vintner' appears in the text?

"Sometime, if one man be out on mesa alone, an' plenty coyote come, he have hard fight for life. Coyote is wild dog. He is big coward unless pretty hungry. If I leave light burn he never come near us." "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. Nearer and nearer sounded the howls, until it was easy to see a dozen fierce eyes gleaming in the darkness, not a stone's throw away from the camp. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "The next time we come this way let us fetch along a ton or so of coyote feed," suggested the Major. "I wonder what the poor brutes would think if they were stuffed full for once in their lives?" "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." While the Major and Mr. Merrick stood wondering at the request, the Canadian, who was still holding the revolver in one hand, picked a steel rod from the rumble of the automobile and pushing aside the flap of the little tent entered. The tail-lamp of the car burned inside, dimly lighting the place. The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." He did, Wampus placing blankets and a pillow for him without a word of protest. The Major climbed over Uncle John and mounted to the roof of the car, which sloped to either side but was broad and long enough to accommodate more than one sleeper. Being an old campaigner and a shrewd tactician, Major Doyle made two blankets into rolls, which he placed on either side of him, to "anchor" his body in position. Then he settled himself to rest beneath the brilliant stars while the coyotes maintained their dismal howling. But a tired man soon becomes insensible to even such annoyances. The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. "I am not--what you call him?--a dictionairre; no. But I am Wampus. I have live much in very few year. I would say a fool is man who think he is wise. For what is wise? Nothing!" The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. CHAPTER XI A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. The mesa was not a flat or level country, for they were still near to the mountain ranges. The way was up hill and down, in gentle slopes, and soon after starting they breasted the brow of a hill and were confronted by half a dozen mounted men, who seemed as much astonished at the encounter as they were. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. Uncle John nodded. He had heard of this curious class. Especially were the men staring at the three pretty, feminine faces that peered from the interior of the limousine. They had remained silent thus far, but now one of them, a fellow with dark eyes and a sallow complexion, reined his horse nearer the car and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture that was not ungraceful. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" Uncle John frowned. He did not like the bantering, impudent tone. Beth flushed and turned aside her head; Myrtle shrank back in her corner out of sight; but Patsy glared fixedly at the speaker with an expression that was far from gracious. The remittance man did not seem daunted by this decided aversion. A sneering laugh broke from his companions, and one of them cried: "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." His comrades laughed again, and one of them shouted: "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Because we have had no ladies to dance with," explained Algy. "But here are three come to our rescue--perhaps more, if I could see inside that barricade--and they cannot refuse us the pleasure of their society." "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. When Wampus had quite finished his work he arose, adjusted his disarranged collar and tie and proceeded to crank the engines. Then he climbed into his seat and started the car with a sudden bound. As he did so a revolver shot rang out and one of the front tires, pierced by the bullet, ripped itself nearly in two as it crumpled up. A shout of derisive laughter came from the cowboys. Algy was astride his pony again, and as Wampus brought the damaged car to a stop the remittance men dashed by and along the path, taking the same direction Uncle John's party was following". Tobey held back a little, calling out: "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "I never met such a lawless brood in my life," prowled the Major, indignantly. "If they were in New York they'd be put behind the bars in two minutes." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." It took a long time to set the new tire and inflate it, for the outer tube was torn so badly that an extra one had to be substituted. But finally the task was accomplished and once more they renewed their journey. Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Do you really suppose we are on that man's ground--his ranch, as he calls it?" asked Myrtle, half fearfully. "Why, I suppose someone owns all this ground, barren as it is," replied Patsy. "But we are following a regular road--not a very good one, nor much traveled; but a road, nevertheless--and any road is public property and open for the use of travelers." "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "I have never come jus' this same route before," he admitted; "but I make good friend in Prescott, who know all Arizona blindfold. Him say this is nice, easy road and we cannot get lost for a good reason--the reason there is no other road at all--only this one." "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "He say remittance man make much mischief if he can; but he one foreign coward, drunk most time an' when sober weak like my aunt's tea. He say don't let remittance man make bluff. No matter how many come, if you hit one they all run." "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. The car was heavy and the road soft; so in spite of their powerful engines the car was not making more than fifteen miles an hour. A short ride brought them to a ridge, from the top of which they saw a huddle of buildings not far distant, with a near-by paddock containing a number of ponies and cattle. The buildings were not palatial, being composed mostly of adobe and slab wood; but the central one, probably the dwelling or ranch house, was a low, rambling pile covering considerable ground. The road led directly toward this group of buildings, which our travelers at once guessed to be "Hades Ranch." Wampus slowed down and cast a sharp glance around, but the land on either side of the trail was thick with cactus and sagebrush and to leave the beaten path meant a puncture almost instantly. There was but one thing to be done. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. The car gathered speed and shot over the road at the rate of twenty miles an hour; then twenty-five--then thirty--and finally forty. The girls sat straight and looked eagerly ahead. Forms were darting here and there among the buildings of the ranch, quickly congregating in groups on either side of the roadway. A red flag fluttered in the center of the road, some four feet from the ground. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" Wampus saw why, and applied his brakes. The big car trembled, slowed down, and came to a stop less than a foot away from three ugly bars of barbed wire which had been placed across the road. They were now just beside the buildings, and a triumphant shout greeted them from their captors, the remittance men. CHAPTER XII CAPTURED "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." "I've engaged the dark eyed one for the first dance," persisted Stubby, as a dozen hands dragged him away from the door. The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Patsy put her head out of the window and looked at the speaker. It was Mr. Algernon Tobey. He had two strips of sticking plaster over his nose. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was almost closed. Yet he spoke in a voice more cheerful than it was when they first met him. "Don't be afraid," he added. "No one has the slightest intention of injuring any of you in any way, I assure you." "We have not the same intention in regard to you, sir," replied Major Doyle, fuming with rage, for his "Irish was up," as he afterward admitted. "Unless you at once remove that barricade and allow us to proceed we will not be responsible for what happens. You are warned, sir!" Uncle John, by this time standing beside the Major upon the ground, had been quietly "sizing up the situation," as he would have expressed it. He found they had been captured by a party of fourteen men, most of whom were young, although three or four, including Tobey, were of middle age. The atmosphere of the place, with its disorderly surroundings and ill kept buildings, indicated that Hades Ranch was bachelor quarters exclusively. Half a dozen Mexicans and one or two Chinamen were in the background, curious onlookers. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. Uncle John had lived many years in the West and knew something of these peculiar English exiles. Therefore he was neither frightened nor unduly angry, but rather annoyed by the provoking audacity of the fellows. He had three young girls to protect and knew these men could not be fit acquaintances for them. But he adopted a tone different from the Major's and addressed himself to Tobey as the apparent leader of the band. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." "You are right," answered Tobey. "And each and every one you see before you has fallen from his former high estate--through no fault of his own." This may have been a sarcasm, for the others laughed in boisterous approval. "In some respects we are still gentlemen," Tobey went on, "but in others we are not to be trusted. Be reasonable, sir--I haven't the faintest idea who you are or what your name is--and consider calmly our proposition. Here we are, a number of young fellows who have seen better and happier days, living alone in the midst of an alkali desert. Most of us haven't seen a female for months, nor a lady for years. Why, last fall Stubby there rode eighty miles to Buxton, just to stand on a corner and see a lot of greasy Mexican women go by. We tire of exclusive male society, you see. We get to bore one another terribly. So here, like a visitation from heaven, three attractive young ladies descend upon us, traveling through our domain, and having discovered their presence we instantly decided to take advantage of the opportunity and invite them to an impromptu ball. There's no use refusing us, for we insist on carrying out our plan. If you men, perhaps the fathers of the young ladies, behave reasonably, we will entertain you royally and send you on your way rejoicing. Won't we, boys?" They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this f te, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" "That's right, Algy," said one, answering for the others; "we'll have that dance if we die for it--ev'ry man Jack of us." Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "I am Patricia Doyle," she said in a clear voice, "and these gentlemen," indicating the Major and Mr. Merrick, "are my father and my uncle. You understand perfectly why they object to the arrangement you suggest, as any one of you would object, had you a daughter in a like position. But you are arbitrary and not inclined to respect womanhood. Therefore but one course is open to us--to submit under protest to the unwelcome attentions you desire to thrust upon us." They listened silently to this frank speech, and some of their faces wore crestfallen expressions by the time she had finished. Indeed, one of the older men turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing among the buildings. After a brief hesitation a delicate young fellow--almost a boy--followed this man, his face flaming red with shame. But the others stood their ground. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Good for you, Tim!" shouted a dozen voices. And Stubby added in his earnest way; "Dan'l was never more needed in his life." Tobey was busy unwinding a long lariat that bent the captive nearly double and secured him firmly to the panting horse. When the bonds were removed Dan'l would have tumbled prone to the ground had not willing hands caught him and supported him upon his feet. Our friends then observed that he was an aged man with a face thickly furrowed with wrinkles. He had but one eye, small and gray and very shrewd in expression, which he turned contemptuously upon the crowd surrounding him. Numb and trembling from his cramped position upon the horse and the terrible jouncing he had endured, the fiddler could scarcely stand at first and shook as with a palsy; but he made a brave effort to control his weakness and turned smilingly at the murmur of pity and indignation that came from the lips of the girls. "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "What do you mean, sir, by this rebellious attitude?" questioned Tobey, sticking his damaged face

feel

How many times the word 'feel' appears in the text?