The Lake of Gold!

The Lake of Gold!

The TRUE Story of the Man of Gold! He used to bathe in a lake at the bottom of which now lies £300,000,000 in Treasure. It's still there—waiting for someone to take it!

By Stanton Hope

From The Modern Boy magazine, 17 February 1934, No. 315, Vol. 13. Contributed by Keith and Brian Hoyt, digitized by Doug Frizzle, March 2013.

EL DORADO is a name that has come to stand for rich gold mines and diamond fields. But its literal meaning is "The Man of Gold." and there actually existed a golden man among the ancient Indians of South America!

One of the world's most amazing true stories of treasure is linked with the real El Dorado. At a low estimate £300,000,000 in treasure lies at the bottom of the lake where, once a year, the Man of Gold used to bathe.

If you have a map of South America handy, take a glance at the countries in the north above the mighty Amazon River. On the east is Guiana, then Venezuela, Colombia, and down on the west coast Ecuador, Peru, and Chile, which extends south to Cape Horn.

The jungle trails of those countries in the north were the trails of the old Spanish conquistadors. The armed hordes of Pizarro and Cortez tramped through the undergrowth, and many left their bones in swamps and on the high passes of the Andes Mountains.

It wasn't mere love of adventure that drove those hard-bitten men through a country of wild animals, poisonous reptiles, fever, and hostile Indians, but the lure of gold.

In the fifteenth century, Spanish adventurers learned of the vast treasure of the Incas. Strange stories reached the Pacific coast of cities built with gold, of temples filled with jewels, of a mysterious lake whose bed was paved with gold. An even more fantastic story was that of a man of solid gold who lived in the mountains and had been seen to walk and to swim.

At that time, many Spaniards were along the coast from Colombia to Peru. On the seaboard of Venezuela to the north there was a German colony, and news of the vast Indian treasures leaked through also to this Caribbean coast.

Proof was soon forthcoming that there was solid truth in the stories, amazing though they appeared. Individual adventurers returned from the interior, some of whom had secured wonderful golden ornaments and rare jewels.

It is safe to say that all the gold got by the early conquistadors was smeared with blood. The hardy Indians of the Andes did not trade or present this gold to the white man. It was taken over their dead bodies when sword and flame had done their grim work.

Proof piled upon proof until the facts were established of the world's most amazing treasure hoard.

To the south of Colombia was a great plateau inhabited by the Chibchas, a powerful Indian tribe who had their own civilisation and arts. Back there in the fifteenth century they built stone houses, suspension bridges which would have done credit to a European engineer, and shrewdly traded salt and other products for gold-dust.

For centuries the Chibchas had been engaged in that trade. They were a wealthy people, and their goldsmiths had remarkable skill. For centuries they made ornaments with gold and jewels, and many of these were buried in the burial mounds, called guacas, of the tribe.

At the head of those Indians was a hereditary prince and high priest combined, and it was he who was known as El Dorado, or the Man of Gold.

At seed-time and harvest the tribe held a great festival at which athletic sports were held. The youths were splendid athletes, and many a little young Indian dropped dead in the strenuous foot races. The chief event occurred at the famous Lake Guatavita, a pool nine thousand feet up in the Andes, and not far from Bogota, the present capital of Colombia.

For the ceremony at the lake the prince smothered his body with the gum from trees, possibly the chicle gum of the kind used nowadays for making chewing-gum

The prince felt sticky, but he was not allowed to remain looking undignified for long. His priests came with their blow-pipes and wafted gold-dust all over him. By the time they had done that, he looked like a gilt statue, and when he walked forth into view of the great gathering of Indians round the lake, a murmur of awe and admiration rose upon the mountain air.

The lake was no bigger than many a pond in an English park, and it took little time for the man of gold to voyage in a decorated boat to the middle. There, after prayers and ceremony, he hurled himself into the lake.

THERE is historical reason for believing that the dive itself was hidden from the populace by a smoke-screen made by attendants on board the craft.

However, the splash was the signal for great happenings. Uttering mighty shouts the whole vast crowd produced either ornaments of gold or jewels, and hurled them far out into the lake. This ceremony, mark you, was carried out religiously over the course of centuries.

These precious offerings were to appease the tribal god whose home was supposed to be at the bottom of Lake Guatavita. The prince himself came out minus most of his gold-dust, and back on board his decorated craft proceeded to add one or two sackfuls of gold and jewels to the already vast treasure in the lake.

Two of Pizarro's captains were the first men to get on the trail of this mighty treasure. The first, who took a force of soldier-adventurers with him, was set upon and defeated by Indian warriors who ambushed them. The second, Captain Gonzalo de Quesada, took a party of 715 men with him. The existence of the lake was known, but Quesada had to find out its exact location.

In those days there was only one way for the conquistadors to find out the secrets of Indians. They caught every Indian they could find and put him to the torture. Quesada's progress was a trail of sword-work and roastings—and the charred bones of brave men who died with the Chibcha secret still locked in their hearts.

The Spaniards were not squeamish, and they had determination and pluck despite their cruelty and greed. Quesada's band gradually melted like the snow on the Andes in the summer sun. Still the survivors pressed on, fighting with sword and pistol against the spears and blow-guns of the warlike Indians, who had many old scores to pay off. In the jungles and swamps fever took its toil, and the cold nights of the upper Andes picked off others weakened by wounds and malaria.

Quesada had his troubles, too, from a party of adventurous Germans who had made their way from the Caribbean coast.

At last, his determination and tortures gained him the knowledge he wanted. He discovered the situation of the lake of gold, and after managing to set the Chibcha Indians fighting with one another, he reached it with a handful of the armoured men who had set out with him. Unluckily for himself, practically the whole remaining treasure of the tribe was dumped into the lake not long before his arrival.

Perhaps there were Indians still lurking in the jungle who smiled ironically at the spectacle of Quesada standing on the lake-shore, baffled. In the middle that lake was forty fathoms deep—240 feet—and now that Quesada had found the cache the problem was how to lay hands on the treasure.

With his armed men, Quesada went forth and rounded up hundreds of fugitive Indians and set them like slaves to dig a channel for him.

By means of that channel much water was drained from the lake, but it was found impossible to empty it. For all his pains, Quesada got no more than £350 worth of treasure from the £300,000,000 hoard.

Once the location of this lake of El Dorado became known, there were not lacking other adventurers to try to get the wealth sunken in it.

Another Spaniard, Antonio de Sepulveda, went direct to King Philip II to ask the king's help in draining the lake. This time the job was done with more thoroughness, but still the water remained twenty feet deep in the middle of the lake where most of the precious offerings had been thrown.

He took out a quantity of golden ornaments, though, and in those days when precious stones were cheap compared with their value now, a single emerald taken from the lake was sold in Madrid for the equivalent of £40,000.

Yet the treasure hunters had barely scratched this vast treasure. Sepulveda's attempt came to an abrupt end when his huge draining channel fell in and killed most of the Indian workers. And once more the lake filled to a depth of over two hundred feet.

All kinds of attempts have been made since then to reach the lake into which the man of gold used to dive.

Near the beginning of the nineteenth century, Captain Cochrane, an Englishman, went into partnership with Ignacio Paris, a South American, in a determined attempt to dig out Sepulveda's channel. Like previous lesser attempts, the venture was a failure because too much capital was needed for the engineering work, and the sum was not forthcoming to complete the job.

IF ever a Chibcha god dwelt at the bottom of Lake Guatavita, he must have smiled- at man's puny efforts to despoil him.

A large company was formed in Bogota City for a new great treasure attempt. Little was done for three years until, in 1900, the objects and assets of the company were taken over by an English concern.

This English company had the princely sum of £30,000 to play with, and that represented a small enough outlay for the sake of getting a treasure of £300,000,000.

The work went on for years, and yet another £10,000 had to be found to continue the engineering of a tunnel for draining the lake. When the water ran out, special arrangements were made to catch any gold ornaments or jewels which happened to be dislodged with it.

Imagine the wild excitement of the workers, when articles of gold, great emeralds, jewelled brooches and rings were disgorged from the lake.

Those who had thought that, after all, the story of El Dorado was a fable, had the solid proof in gold and jewels before their eyes.

At last, by a shaft through the bottom of the lake, all the water was drained away. More articles were found, and the whole lot were worth some thousands of pounds, but not enough to give a profitable return on the capital outlay. The great bulk of the treasure, had gradually sunk into the mud of the lake-bed daring the centuries, for gold is one of the heaviest of metals.

The sun blazed down from a clear-sky, and a crust was formed over the dry lake-bed. Almost before digging could be got under way, this place which once had been a lake had become a basin of solid concrete!

It had cost a fortune to drain Lake Guatavita, and now the dismayed engineers recognised that it would take another fortune to obtain and employ the means for, breaking through this sun-baked lake-bed, and delving deep in the mud where this fabulous treasure lay.

And if they did manage to raise sufficient money with which to pay for the machinery and labour necessary for breaking through, they could not be sure that they would find sufficient treasure to make the venture worth while—or even to pay the expenses. They had staked a fortune on the chance of finding the treasure by draining the lake, and now that the prize had eluded them they were not prepared to take a second chance and risk losing money in a venture that might or might not turn out trumps. They decided to give it best!

From that day to this no other serious attempt has been made to wrench the treasure from El Dorado. If you go to Bogota, you can hire a motor-car and drive over good roads and through magnificent mountain scenery to the place where once the man of gold used to dive. The lake has filled up again; there remains the rotten timbering of the tunnel made by the last engineers, and the ruins of huts where some of the workers lived.

Look down into that shimmering water and imagine generation after generation of ancients flinging their precious offerings to the god of the lake. Forty fathoms down and deep in the mud of the lake-bed still lies the bulk of a £300,000,000 treasure. Gold and precious stones, sufficient to transform three hundred poor men into millionaires, remain there in the Andes.

Will this mighty treasure ever be recovered? Men still dream and plot how to drag it from the depths into the light of day. Meanwhile, the Indians of Colombia say that the laughter of the lake-god can be heard when the wind ruffles the surface of the water!

Another Splendid TRUE Story Next Saturday, the Hunting of a Human Tiger! And Don't YOU Miss It!!!

In the Toils of Tagore! Part x of y

In the Toils of Tagore!

CAPTAIN JUSTICE beaten by TERRIFIC and UNCANNY POWERS!

Part x of y

By Murray Roberts

From The Modern Boy magazine, 23 March 1935, No. 372, Vol. 15. Contributed by Keith Hoyt; digitized by Doug Frizzle, March 2013.

The Call to Surrender!

GREAT SCOTT—the Flying Cloud! She's done it! Got here just in time!"

Captain Justice, Dr. O'Mally, Len Connor, Midge, and the rest of the desperate handful of men who had so gloriously defended Professor Flaznagel's main workshop, on Justice Island, since dawn could scarcely believe their own eyes. Dazed, weary, half-stunned by the crashing shell-bursts which had at last reduced their fortress to a mere battered hulk, the little party stood limp with joy.

They were men whom only a miracle had saved from certain massacre. Less than a minute before—though it seemed like a year—the spectre of doom had leered in their faces. Backs to the wall, the exhausted garrison had prepared themselves for a last heroic stand against the savage warriors of Prince Tagore, Wolf of Bhuristan—the high caste, educated Indian who had raided Justice Island with disciplined troops, shells, gas, and grenades! The charging Bhuristanis had almost gained their objective. In another few seconds, triumphant besiegers and stubborn defenders would have clashed in the final brief struggle. But now—

"By James!" Captain Justice swallowed hard. He screwed his eyes uptight, then opened them slowly, as if afraid to find it was all a dream.

But no! The Bhuristanis were running right enough—running like terrified hares! Those same tall, hawk-faced warriors who had swept down upon the garrison so tumultuously were scattering wildly now, yelling, pointing to the skies, fighting each other in their frenzied efforts to get to the boats.

For there, out beyond the bay, the sleek, silver Flying Cloud, Justice's monster airship, was heading for the island at amazing speed.

Captain Justice's tired eyes shone. The Flying Cloud, with Professor Flaznagel and the rest of the captain's men aboard, was coming to the rescue in the nick of time. The SOS that Justice had managed to send out by wireless had been received.

"Forward, lads! It's our turn now! Don't give the swabs a chance to turn back and make for the hills!” exclaimed Justice suddenly, and stumbled on down the beach, his bearded jaw firm as granite, the sweat streaming down his hard, sun-tanned face. Dr. O'Mally, Justice's second-in-command, was at his leader's heels. Behind them panted Len, the young wireless operator, red-haired Midge and the rest of the island defenders.

BETWEEN Len and Midge ran Prince Budrudin Ananda, rightful heir to the throne of far-off Bhuristan—the Indian lad whom the Wolf, his ambitious cousin, had hunted half round the world.

"Buddy's" dark, handsome face looked pinched with strain and privation, but his deep, brown eyes flashed fiercely now with excitement and the thrill of victory. As he ran, he kept tight hold of the superb ruby that hung round his neck. For that was the most precious thing in his life—the ancient hereditary Tulwar of Bhuristan, the fateful talisman whoso magnetic power had brought the Wolf in pursuit of him to Justice Island.

"Cowards! Lubbers! Bilge rats!" shrilled the boy prince, in the unpolished English he had picked up from his rough-and-ready old friend, Cap'n Bully Blake, who lay seriously wounded back in the workshop. "Come on, scupper them! Sink the mutinous swabs! Pull up the socks, Cap'n Justice, sahib!"

Captain Justice & Co. were doing so. They were running as fast as fatigue, heat, and soft, yielding sand would permit. And the scrambling Bhuristanis had eyes only for the approaching monster in the skies.

"All right—slow up!" Captain Justice stopped short. "No need to waste breath. We can leave 'em to the Flying Cloud now! By Jove, Tagore and his fellow-ruffians are just about scared out of their wits!"

It was true. By this time every ex-raider had quitted the island. The surface of the small bay was dotted with dinghies and launches, all racing towards the powerful white yacht anchored out between the headlands. The cries of the demoralised natives swelled to a high thin wail as the Flying Cloud closed in. The splendid dirigible skimmed along, barely two hundred feet above the waves.

"She's got 'em!" babbled O'Mally, brandishing his rifle. "Bcgorrah, she's got 'em like rats in a trap! They'll never get that yacht away in time, and if they do the Cloud'll sink her!"

Captain Justice kept his eyes riveted on Prince Tagore. It was not difficult to keep that arch-schemer under observation, even without glasses. His tall, supple figure and the green silk turban he wore distinguished him plainly from the mob as he stood in the stern of the leading launch, vigorously urging the toiling dinghies to greater speed. His own boat swept alongside the yacht at last. He was the first to spring out on to the ladder, which he climbed with the agility of a cat.

For a second or two Justice lost sight of him after Tagore vaulted the rail. Then again the green turban bobbed into view. The Wolf, paying no heed to his rattled followers now, was making aft towards the broad platform-deck that extended out over the vessel's taffrail. On that deck, its metal sides flashing back the sunlight, stood a sturdy, long-range seaplane.

Captain Justice's lips curled as he watched the distant figure of his enemy lurch up to the plane. Then ho shot a calculating glance aloft and smiled.

"Trying to make a getaway on your own, are you, you beauty!" he said. “Leaving your men in the lurch, eh? Well, you're unlucky, my friend—you're too late!"

There was a yell from the watchers on the beach as a great dark shadow rushed across the face of the waters, dulling the yacht's whiteness. Next moment the Flying Cloud pounced, blocking the mouth of the bay with her tremendous bulk. Perfectly handled, she came round broadside-on, then sank lower under whining air-screws. She sank a fraction too low—and the yacht's foremast, snapping like a matchstick, crashed overside.

Then clear above the bedlam of cries and howls sounded the rattle of the airship's guns, spitting out their harsh call to surrender.

On the yacht, groups of cowed Bhuristanis huddled together, their hands fluttering in the air, their abject eyes fixed on the leviathan above them. Justice could see Tagore himself standing, arms folded and head bowed, beside the seaplane's wing. The Wolf's whole attitude proclaimed his defeat.

"And, by James," muttered Justice, as he watched the distant figure, "I'll see to it that you don't get another opportunity to make mischief on this island!"

Caging the Wolf!

SOMETHING like two hours elapsed before Captain Justice and his old friend and partner, Professor Flaznagel, were able to compare notes.

Meanwhile, the dejected raiders had been disarmed, brought ashore, and herded into a barbed-wire pen which had been erected on the beach for their exclusive use!

Young Buddy, overcome by weakness and excitement, had collapsed, and with Cap'n Bully Blake and the two wounded islanders had been removed to the garden behind Justice's shell-wrecked bungalow.

"How the deuce we're going to feed these infernal prisoners for long, as well as ourselves, the dickens only knows!" Justice growled; for the merciless shell-fire had laid waste store and equipment sheds, in addition to the men's quarters, the wireless-house, hospital, and Professor Flaznagel's laboratory and workshops.

As for the professor, never had Justice & Co. beheld him in such a temper.

"Monstrous! Wicked! By heavens. Justice, someone shall pay for this!" spluttered the scientist-inventor, striding up to the captain and his comrades after a tour of inspection. Flaznagel's short-sighted eyes were snapping with rage behind his huge, horn-rimmed spectacles. His long, lanky form quivered as he stamped to a halt.

"Ruined!" he blared. "My machines, apparatus, everything!" The old man tugged savagely at his straggly white beard. "Where is the leader of these confounded barbarians? Bring the scoundrel to me, someone! I'll teach him to destroy my property!"

One of the men marched up with Tagore, and silence fell as Justice & Co. surveyed their attacker.

By now, Prince Tagore, the Wolf of Bhuristan, had recovered some of his arrogance and poise. He stood calmly erect, turbaned head thrown back and a faintly contemptuous smile on his lips. His wrists were bound, and the escort's grip was firm on his arm, but neither indignity seemed to affect him in the least. Nor did he appear troubled by thoughts of punishment. Only the deep, hard glitter in his narrowed eyes warned Justice that the Indian's spirit was still unbroken—still dangerous.

Professor Flaznagcl, however, unimpressed by Tagore's disdainful bearing, snorted:

"So you're the saddle-coloured scamp who has caused us all this loss, danger—and inconvenience!" he stormed, and had the satisfaction of seeing Tagore stiffen at the withering insult. "You rascally bully! All this for the sake of vengeance on a mere boy, whose royal father you have slain simply to install your own worthless sire on an Indian throne! By Jove, it passes all bounds!

"You vandal! I am not in the least interested in your confounded Bhuristani politics, but I am interested in the wanton damage you have wrought here! And for that, as well as your other crimes, I shall see that you pay the severest penalty!"

"How dreadfully alarming!" drawled Tagore, in his faultless English, then darted, a flashing-glance at the captain. "Do you usually torture prisoners by compelling them to listen to this vapouring old fool?" he sneered. "Come, enough of this! For the present, I am helpless in your hands, but I demand the treatment that is due to my rank. May I remind you that I am Prince Tagore Ananda, of Bhuristan, and not a dog to be dragged about or cooped up in a wire cage? I will, of course, offer you my royal parole—"

"Thank you; I think not!" Justice's icy voice froze the man's insolence. '"You are a dangerous prisoner, Tagore, and you'll be treated as such!"

TAKING a sudden stride forward, Justice looked his enemy squarely in the eye.

"Also," he snapped, "I am telling you now that I shall exert all the energy and influence I possess on behalf of your cousin, Budrudin Ananda. You and your father—who, I gather, is but a puppet in your ambitious schemes—have robbed the boy of his throne and friends and turned him into an exiled orphan and fugitive. It is useless his appealing to our Indian Government, or any other, since Bhuristan is an independent kingdom, so I'll take the job on myself. By James, I'll not rest until I see Budrudin Ananda restored to his rightful position as Rajah of Bhuristan—if I have to hang you, your father, and all the rascally priests who aided you."

Thus Captain Justice proclaimed himself Budrudin's champion. Professor Flaznagel nodded his satisfaction, but Tagore stood very still. It seemed to have dawned on the imperious Indian that, in tackling Captain Justice & Co., he had twisted the tiger's tail!

The sneer passed from his face. As he opened his lips to speak, Justice made a brusque gesture.

"Baker," he said, "you will escort the prisoner to the Flying Cloud. He'll be safer inside, and we'll go deeper into this matter after a night's rest. Lock him in that spare cabin next the wireless-office—see that he is bound securely! Post a sentry outside, and give orders for a relief to take over every two hours. And feed him. That's all."

"Yes, sir."

Baker shifted his grip a little, preparatory to marching the captured Wolf away. As he did so, Tagore wrenched himself free, with sudden violence, and thrust his distorted face into the captain's.

"That is all, you say?" he snarled, his eyes glowing like hot coals. "By the gods you are wrong, Captain Justice! This is not ended yet! You will win back Budrudin's throne! You will fight for that brat and wreck my hopes and plans!" He flung a taunting laugh in Justice's teeth.

"You puny fool! You feeble, dull-witted white clod, what do you know or even guess of the power of Tagore and the Priests of Bhuristan? Nothing! But you will! I tell you that—"

"Oh, take him away, Baker!" snapped Justice irritably; and the escort took another grip on his man.

When he had gone, Justice produced his cigar-case and tapped it meditatively, and Professor Flaznagel polished his spectacles with energy.

"A very pretty rascal, that, Justice!" he exclaimed, and shook his shaggy head. "Bhuristan, eh? Sandwiched between the Afghan-Kirghaz borders, I believe. Curiously enough, Justice, we have been exploring in that direction—surveying and photographing the hidden mineral lands in Kurdistan, to be precise. And really, I am positive that I have made some discoveries of great scientific value. Er—h'm! Yes, quite so."

Realising suddenly that his comrades were becoming restive, the enthusiastic but absent-minded professor brought himself back to the subject in hand.

"Naturally, we did not visit this Bhuristan country. To be candid, we really did not relish crossing the extremely high and dangerous mountains in that region; and I fear that if you are seriously intent on—er—invading Bhuristan you will find yourself faced with some exceedingly formidable obstacles. But, of course, my dear fellow," he added hastily, "we shall surmount them! I am with you heart and soul in this campaign on behalf of that most unfortunate youth—if only to punish his scoundrelly cousin and uncle!

"My goodness!" Again the professor blinked angrily at the blackened buildings, rapidly blurring into shapelessness in the dusk. "The villain has done us an evil turn! Thank Heaven we were on our way back to-day! Near enough, in fact, to pick up your rather indistinct SOS!"

"So it was little me and the wireless that saved the day after all!"

"Yes, that was good work, Len!" smiled Justice, clapping the young wireless operator on the shoulder. "But I'm afraid I've got to ask you to put in still more work on the wireless before the night's out. Go along now and snatch some sleep, and I'll leave word for you to be called just before twelve. Then get aboard the Flying Cloud and get through to Oliver, our Trinidad agent, by wireless. Tell him what's happened. We need a full cargo of supplies as quickly as he can get them out to us. And we'll want temporary frame-huts, and so on, while the township's being rebuilt. Is that clear?

"Right! Well, that ought to take about half an hour, I suppose, so when you've finished, Len, relieve the guard and stand by Tagore till you are relieved. Take a good look at his bonds, and see that he can't get up to mischief. Otherwise, give him anything he wants, in reason, and leave him alone. But have a sleep first—you need it."

"Right!" Len grinned cheerfully. "And if Mister Tagore wants trouble I'll give him that, too, and welcome."

"Now, doc," resumed Justice, when Len had hurried off in search of sleeping quarters, "you'll take charge of your patients, of course. Midge, you help Ham Chow to rustle up some sort of meal—and try not to scoff it all yourself, you imp! I'll attend to the guards round the barbed wire, and we'll sleep turn and turn about." Justice yawned, and smiled wryly. "I could sleep on a bale of barbed wire this moment. It's been what you might call a trying day!"

"Cut My Bonds!"

IT was eleven-forty-five when Len Connor, who had bedded down on the beach, was awakened by his leader. The tall youngster sat up with a start, blinked hazily at the stars while his drowsy wits stirred, then scrambled up. Captain Justice, he saw, was leaden-eyed.

"Gosh, you look all-in, skipper!" he exclaimed.

"I am rather tired," Justice admitted. "However, I've made my last round, lad, so I can turn in now, thank goodness! Here's a flask of Ham Chow's coffee for you. Be off now, and get in touch with Oliver !"

"I'll get him, sir. Good-night!" And Len was off.

The Flying Cloud had been berthed with her stern on the debris-littered airship ramp, her slender bows jutting out over the waterline of the bay and pointing directly to the ghostly shape of Tagore's yacht, which rocked at anchor three hundred yards off-shore. Len, refreshed by the cool night breeze, ascended to the airship's central car. In the communicating-way, where a single light burned, the sentry awaited him.

"Hallo, Johnson!" said Len. "Any trouble from his Nibs?"

"Not a bit, Mr. Connor!" grinned Johnson. "Reckon he's a mighty tame wolf now, sir! Anything you want me to do before I pop off?"

"No, thanks, old son! I'll look in on him presently." Then Len entered the wireless cabin, where, for the next five and twenty minutes, he was busy wirelessing the stirring tidings to a certain discreet and energetic gentleman in Trinidad. Then he went next door.

Tagore lay on the bunk, fully clad, his wrists and ankles tied. A shaded bulb filled the cabin with soft light. On Len's entry, the prisoner turned his head.

"Ah! The estimable Mr. Connor, I believe?" he purred, shifting his position a little. Len stepped nearer.

"Is there anything you require?" he asked coldly, but politely.

Tagore stared at him for a moment intently.

"You are gracious," he replied at last. "To tell the truth, Mr. Connor, I am positively dying for a smoke—that is, if prison rules permit. None of my former guards would come near me, alas! My cigarette-case? Yes, it is here in my breast-pocket. Ah, thank you! That is kind!"

Len, whose good nature was a byword among his comrades, fumbled inside the Indian's tussore jacket, then took out a gold and platinum case. Captain Justice had said that the prisoner might have what he wanted—in reason. Len placed a thin brown Russian cigarette between Tagore's lips, lighted it, and the Wolf puffed contentedly.

"The Good Samaritan, eh?" he murmured. "I needed this, Mr. Connor. If you like to empty out the cigarettes, you may keep the case as a souvenir. No?" He laughed softly as Len shook his head, and eyed him keenly again,

"Let me see," he drawled. "You are the wireless officer in this most interesting organisation, are you not? Indeed, from what I hear it was you who brought this detestable airship in such haste to the rescue—yes?"

Len nodded. He began to back away, made uneasy by the man's curiously penetrating stare, yet unable for some reason to shift his own gaze. A frown appeared on his brow as he stood looking down into Tagore's tranquil face wreathed in wisps of smoke.

Len's worried air deepened unconsciously. He was no longer edging back, though he did try halfheartedly to turn away. He became dimly aware that a queer sensation of rigidity was stiffening his muscles, yet, oddly enough, the fact seemed unimportant. A return of weariness, perhaps. Tagore had begun talking again, in a flat, toneless voice.

"I—" began Len. But whatever remark he had intended to make halted on his lips. Again he strove to turn away, and again the impulse died. There was something wrong, he told himself. But what was it?

That smooth brown countenance on the pillow was utterly devoid of expression. Only the brilliant eyes had any life in them. But the pupils—almost jet-black they looked now seemed suddenly larger—more piercing than ever. And still Tagore lay motionless in his bonds, talking quietly, trickling smoke through his nostrils, and staring—staring—

It dawned on Len that Tagore's look had changed subtly to one of terrific intensity—as though with all his Oriental soul he was striving to do—what? Len's mind felt sleepy—clogged. Then suddenly a wild throb of fear fluttered his heart.

With every jot of mental energy he possessed, the youngster struggled to turn then—to fling off the weird inertia stealing over him—to fight against the Indian's hypnotic stare? A numbing coldness was spreading through him—the lethargy, as he realised with sick despair, of departing will-power. He tried to turn and run, but his feet were leaden weights. And still Tagore continued to talk gently at him through the cigarette-smoke.

"Yes, you are the wireless officer, Mr. Connor. It was you who summoned help," he droned on; then suddenly smiled, a slow, mirthless smile. Without raising his voice, he said:

"And now will you please cut my bonds, Mr. Connor?"

Len moved forward. His penknife seemed to come out of its own accord. The blade sliced through knotted cords. Prince Tagore of Bhuristan rose slowly, stretched himself, and rubbed his wrists.

LEN CONNOR stood and watched him. The young wireless operator's eyes were glazed, like the eyes of a sleepwalker. His arms dangled loosely at his sides; his face was a blank. He was in a state of suspended animation. One could have heard a pin drop in the cabin as the Wolf of Bhuristan studied his victim closely.

Tagore expelled a long breath at last, and lit another cigarette.

“And there you are, Mr. Connor!" he said. "As I explained to your bumptious captain, my young friend, there is much he does not know of Tagore's peculiar powers—of the powers of the East. Hypnotism, dear Mr. Connor—one of our finer arts! Being tired, you succumbed even more easily than I anticipated!"

His hands—long and slender—moved rhythmically to and fro across Len's eyes. But Len never blinked. Tagore shrugged, and flicked him spitefully on the chin.

"Ay, hypnotism!" he rapped "Now listen to me! You will do exactly as I tell you! You will obey every order! You are mine, do you understand? Speak!"

"I will obey," Len replied unemotionally. Again the smile lighted the Indian's eyes.

" Good! Now answer questions! Are there any more men on board?"

"No."

"Any men aboard my yacht? Has the yacht or the seaplane been tampered with in any way? Speak!"

"Two sentries on the yacht. The seaplane has not been touched."

"Excellent!" The Wolf tossed up his head exultantly. "Then I will inspect this wonderful airship now—the engine-room first, I think! Lead the way, Mr. Connor. And tread very quietly. Go!"

Len turned, stiffly as a clockwork figure. He opened the door, and marched unseeingly along the alleyway. His rubber-soled shoes made hardly a sound. Tagore prowled behind him, stride for stride.

All was as still and dark as a vault. They came to the huge forward car—the engine-room and nerve centre of the mighty dirigible. Len's hand went out automatically to the electric switchboard, but Tagore forestalled him. He shoved the youngster farther on into the darkness, then patted Len's pockets, and found his flash-lamp.

The torch-ray travelled down the long, narrow compartment, revealing rows of shining levers, the intricate array of control-dials and gauges, the four powerful engines, like sleeping monsters under their sleek, open-ended casings. For several minutes Tagore eyed, them thoughtfully. Then suddenly the swaying beam picked out a door at the far end.

The Wolf asked no question, but some uncanny flash of thought-telepathy compelled the mesmerised Len to speak.

"That door” he announced woodenly, his voice hollow and lifeless, "opens into the small laboratory which Professor Flaznagel maintains on board."

"Ah!" Tagore's eyes widened at the importance of the discovery. His fingers dug into Len's shoulders like steel hooks.

"You will stay here! Do not move or speak—understand?" he snapped, and was away in a moment.

Unfortunately, in his haste to get ashore, Professor Flaznagel had neglected to lock the door of the adjoining room, which was his most cherished and perfectly equipped laboratory, Tagore purred as he swept the torchlight across well-stocked shelves, shockproof cabinets and containers, and the wondrous collection of instruments, apparatus, and electric switches. Then he flitted across to a glass-topped bench and fell swiftly to work, selecting bottles, phials, and retorts with practised ease.

Twenty tense minutes passed in a silence broken only by the occasional clink of glass and the soft hum of an electric furnace. Outside, the silence of the night brooded over Justice Island undisturbed.

Tagore vacated the laboratory at last, walking with quick steps and hugging something under his jacket. He set it down with care, and flashed the torch on Len, who still stood as Tagore had left him, his dormant facilities chained to the will of the Indian master. Tagore nodded, then went to work again, faster than before.

Five minutes later the stinging fumes of acid tainted the air, and a flush of triumph darkened his face. He dragged Len out into the alleyway once more.

"And now," hissed Tagore of Bhuristan, "for my yacht! Since you were chiefly instrumental in capturing me, Mr. Connor, you will continue to assist in my escape."

“You will Silence the Sentries!"

UNDER the light in the alleyway the Indian halted, and again his hands flickered across Len's immobile face. Satisfied, he caught the young wireless operator by the wrist and stole on to the open doorway through which Len had entered the Flying Cloud.

Tagore peered out warily. Not a light showed anywhere down below, but he made out the dim figures of the sentries moving round the wire pen farther up the beach. He went down a few rungs of the ladder, and, craning his neck, saw a line of captured dinghies and launches beached beneath the Flying Cloud's bows. He chuckled softly, returned to Len's side, and once again brought his uncanny powers of thought-transmission into play.

The road was clear. In another moment the escaping Wolf of Bhuristan was climbing noiselessly down to the beach, Len following like an automaton. The inky shadows under the airship engulfed them both. Tagore eased a light yacht's lifeboat into the water and lifted his helpless assistant bodily on to a thwart.

For a second he remained staring up the beach.

"I would dearly love to rescue my men, Mr. Connor, but"—he shrugged callously and slipped into his own seat—"it is too risky, I fear, and I can always find more men. As for that brat, Budrudin, and the Tulwar" —Tagore scowled as he fitted an oar soundlessly into the rowlock—"they must wait, too! The battle is not nearly over yet."

Strongly, skilfully, the Wolf began to pull. The bows of the Flying Cloud screened the dinghy from possible watchers until it was safely out into the bay—a phantom shape amid black waves. In any case, there were no watchers near by—only tired men fast asleep on the sands.

Two yawning sentries on his own yacht were all that barred the fugitive's way now.

Half-way to the yacht he swerved off in a wide detour that brought him unobserved under the vessel's stern. From there he allowed the current to sweep him round to the ship's ladder on the starboard side. As the little boat floated on, he steered it deftly with one oar. Suddenly he pressed a heavy brass rowlock into Len's limp hand.

"And now," he directed coolly, "you will go aboard my yacht, and you will silence the guards! You understand? Go!"

Poor Len obeyed. Like one in a trance, he stepped quietly out on to the ladder while Tagore steadied the boat, and climbed up it. There sounded a quick, startled cry and the patter of feet as his head and shoulders loomed over the rail. Then a light flashed in his eyes and two voices sang out breathlessly:

"What's up? Great Scott, it's you, Mr. Connor! Anything wrong ashore?"

The guards stopped and stared, struck by Len's peculiar expression. Then suddenly, without warning—Thud! Crack! Swiftly, jerkily, Len's loaded fist shot out twice in bewildering succession.

Those punches broke down Tagore's last obstacle. Both blows snapped home with fearful force and precision, and the two sentries dropped flat, knocked clean out. Hearing the dull thuds on deck, Tagore came swarming up the ladder.

"Thank you, Mr. Connor! You are quite a hitter!" he sneered, snatching the rowlock and stooping over the prostrate sentries. "Yes, both insensible. There remains only one more task for you, my friend."

Chuckling to himself, Tagore seized Len and dragged him along the deck and up on to the bridge. At the head of the companion a machine-gun stood mounted on a swivel tripod. He jerked off the tarpaulin hood, clicked an ammunition drum into the breech, and swung the weapon round till its muzzle pointed down at the deck and rails. And then he snapped more orders into Len's passive brain.

"You will do as I bid you! You will not stir from here! You understand that? You are still mine!" he snarled. "By the gods, it will be a sweet revenge! Hark!"

A roaring explosion on shore shattered the stillness of Justice Island.

With the terrifying violence of a tropical thunderclap the savage detonation crashed through the night. It shook the air, set the seabirds screaming and wheeling, and jerked men headlong from their slumber. Captain Justice came staggering to his feet, and other figures sprang up all around him. It was Midge who first realised the awfulness of the catastrophe.

"The Flying Cloud!" he yelled. "Look—look!"

"By James! Tagore!" rasped Justice instinctively.

Disaster had overtaken the Flying Cloud. Through splintered windows and ports in the forward car smoke gushed—smoke that was tinged with the hot, red glare of leaping flames.

"The engine-room!" shouted a score of voices, and Flaznagel uttered a heartrending groan. These men rushed onwards, up the ladders, into the central car.

There they stopped. It was impossible to go forward into the danger zone, for the communicating-way was filled with dense clouds of smoke and bitter fumes. Justice sniffed once and clapped a hand over mouth and nostrils, his face pale beneath its coat of tan.

"Picric acid!" he gasped. "Set off by a fuse-bomb, too, I'll swear! Someone's been at the professor's laboratory! Back, everyone!"

Spinning round, Justice made a dash for Tagore's cabin. He was back again in seconds, bristling like an angry panther.

"He's gone! Connor's missing, too! By James, I'll—What's that?" Justice exclaimed fiercely, and everyone froze to a standstill.

IT was a sudden outburst of sound from the bay—the hoarse roar of an aero engine warming up! Justice reeled for a moment under the shock; the next he was on his way to the ladder once more.

"Come on!" he barked. "Into the launches! We might stop the beggar yet! Midge, tell the guards to watch those prisoners! Baker, take charge of the fire-squad! Follow me, the rest of you!"

Recklessly the pursuers slid down to the beach, piling into launches, dinghies—anything that would float. The increasing bellow of the seaplane's engines spurred them on. Justice's speedboat, piloted by O'Mally, won the race to the yacht. Without a word, the captain went aloft hand over fist, and then:

Brr-rr-rr-rrrr-r ! The crowning blow descended just as he drew his revolver and whipped over the rail. Only coolness and miraculous agility saved him in that moment. He clucked and rolled over, warning his followers back as he did so. From the bridge another burst of bullets slashed down, cutting up the deck, rattling against the rails. Justice's blood ran cold.

“Connor—Len!" he croaked, for at that instant the lights in the seaplane's cabin went on, casting a bright glow over the bridge and its solitary occupant. A harsh shout rang out from the boats in the bay. Captain Justice clasped his aching head.

He felt stupefied, unable to think or move. The Flying Cloud's engine-room wrecked, Tagore escaping in his own plane, and now Connor was covering the Wolf's retreat! Len was up there on the bridge behind a machine-gun, waiting to mow down his own comrades as they rushed aboard.

It must be a dream! Len Connor, sharer of so many of his adventures, would never aid Tagore to escape and turn on his comrades like this!

But it was no dream. There on the bridge stood Len, waiting to shoot anybody who approached him!

"Connor! Len, my boy!" cried Justice; but his husky appeal was blotted out by the sound of a full-throated roar as a huge, all-metal seaplane skimmed off its runway and zoomed into the star-spangled heavens, pursued by futile shots from the water. Tagore, the Wolf of Bhuristan, had slipped his chain!

With true Indian cunning Tagore has made his getaway, but he has not finished with Captain Justice & Co. yet. He hands them a VERY startling reminder of himself in Next Saturday's Murray Roberts thriller!

The Bar-Z Hold-up

The Bar-Z Hold-Up!

By Jack Holt

From The Modern Boy magazine, dated 23 February 1935, #368, Vol. 15. Contributed by Keith Hoyt via his son and my good friend, Brian. Keith died last week so I hope you will appreciate his dedication at the end of the story…Digitized by Doug Frizzle, January 2013.

Young PERCIVAL ULYSSES WOODGER finds the Wild West Wilder even than HE expected — choc-a-bloc with desperate bandits—and LAUGHS!

"Great Guys for a Joke!"

“IS—is—is—wheee!—is the Wild West very wild?" stammered Percival Ulysses Woodger, as the buggy swung down the trail from Rattlesnake Bend Railroad Depot towards the Bar Z Ranch.

"We Britishers, you know, sort of conceive the life of a cowpuncher to be full of hair-raising battles with cattle thieves and b-b-b—whee!—bad men and outlaws and things.

"The lawless element, we have been given to understand, in this part of the world far exceeds the orderly workaday folk who earn their daily bread in an honest fashion."

Bud Elton, boss of the Bar Z outfit, grinned.

"Don't you believe them tales, son," he laughed. "This little lump of Texas ain't more lawless nor New York, Chicago—or even London, where you hail from. It's true we have a particular brand of crook and roughneck around this part of the world what's—how d'you say it?— sorter more picturesque than the reg'lar run of thugs.

"But he ain't any less or more of a bad lot jes' because he wears a big hat an' totes hisself around on a cayuse."

"I rea—I rea—wheee!—I realise that. What I mean is—"

"Sure, I know what you mean, but I can assure you the life of the normal waddie is mainly humdrum, son. Cow-nursin' is jes' a reg'lar round of routine, like any other job. Fence ridin', ropin' in strays, brandin', twice a year rounding up the beeves, eatin' frijoles and bacon, singin' to a punctured accordion, an' occasionally ridin' to town to blow in your payroll—that's the normal life of a cow-poke to-day. No. The beef trade ain't the romantic business it's cracked up to be."

Percival gave his usual whistle to suppress his bad stammer before replying:

"How disappointing! Still, everybody describes their own particular profession as dull, I believe."

There was silence for a short while, except for the rhythmic clatter of the lank mare drawing the buggy along the rough Texas trail. Presently Bud Elton spoke again.

"And what might be your profession, mister?"

"Why," smiled Percy, after whistling, "I'm afraid—well, the only profession I have at the moment is as a sort of roving vagabond. I left my home in England, you know, to teach my uncle a lesson. He said I wasn't capable of making my own way in the world, so I made up my mind to run away for six months to show him he was wrong.

"My last port of call was Houston City, where I was able to be of some assistance to the National Bank there, and hearing I was keen to see a bit of the real West, they repaid me for my services, very kindly, by arranging for this visit to your ranch—which I'm sure I'm going to enjoy immensely."

"I hope so," said Bud generously. "I can only say you're right welcome, pard. Me an' the boys'll do all we can to make your stay interesting. But as regards rustlers and bad men and such—well, we can't supply those—"

"Not even—whee!—a little shoot-up?" Percy grinned.

"Not even that, Mr. Woodger. Less the boys like to stage one special for your benefit. They're great guys for a joke, my boys."

“Well—whee!" grinned Percy. "I suppose I'll just have to be satisfied with the ordinary routine of a cattle ranch. At any rate, I'm pleased to see you wear the traditional garb. You know, when I arrived in Houston and saw what a modern city it was, I began to doubt there were any real cowboys left! Is that the Bar Z over there?" he added, pointing to a collection of huts and corrals dimly visible across the prairie-land.

"Sure, that's my outfit, pard. And that dim smudge you can jes' see on the horizon is my main herd—the finest section of beef in this neck of the woods, though I sez it myself. I'm proud of 'em!"

They chatted on until they came to the ranch—the tanned, bearded cattle-breeder with a cluster of laughter-wrinkles round his kindly grey eyes and Percival Ulysses Woodger, looking just as cheerful and undaunted as he did on the day he started out on his memorable journey from London, five thousand miles away.

"And now," said Bud Elton, when the buggy finally came to a standstill within the corral fence that marked the immediate boundary of the Bar Z, "let me introduce you to the outfit. That's 'em—that ornery-lookin' gang of hoss-thieves lookin' all bashful over yonder.

"Hey, boys! Step right over and meet our English guest. Hope you've all got clean shirts on and washed behind your ears!"

The group of cheerful-looking cow-punchers came over and were introduced to Percy.

"This is Tiny Waters," said Bud Elton, with a gesture towards a lank, six-foot specimen of Western wiriness. "He's my top-hand. Fancies hisself as a humorist, but, believe me, his wisecracks wouldn't raise a grin from a laughin' hyena. See Tiny on a hoss, though, an' you forgive him his humour immediate. Best brone' man and roper in the county!"

"Shucks, boss," said Tiny, fidgeting bashfully.

"This is Dude," said Bud, introducing another. "Has social ambitions, has Dude. Tries to play the guitar and sing opera and always wears a clean collar Sundays."

"Aw—quit hazin', boss!" grinned Dude.

"This here's Zack Rogers. The beeves is scared stiff of him, which ain't to be wondered at when you glimpses his handsome frontispiece. But it ain't on that account. He's a champ bull-dozer. Carried off first prize at Yuma only last fall."

Percy shook hands with the grinning Zack.

"This chunk of rawhide is denounced by the name of Jan Peek. Drop of Swedish in Jan somewheres— you can see it when he washes his face—but there ain't a better cowhand ridin' the ranges.

"We define the following article," continued Bud, pointing to a smiling cattleman with drooping- whiskers, "as Pizen-oak Pete. Pizen-oak is an old stager. Been in the cow business since he was breeched."

"Powerful glad to meetcher, pard!" said Pizen-oak.

"There's another scoundrel in this outfit," said Bud, "but he's that small in dimensions we often mislay him. Where's Slim, boys?"

"In the feedhouse, boss," grinned Zack Rogers. "Hey, Slim, come show yourself!"

The hail was answered by the appearance of a round head in the doorway of a shack that was the cowboys' dining quarters. The head, of course, had the customary body attached to it, as Percival Ulysses presently saw. But what a body! "Slim" was so fat he could hardly squeeze through the feedhouse door. He waddled over to Percy and shook him by the hand, beaming all over his large round face.

"Slim came from out East," explained the joking boss of the ranch. "Thought ranch life would get his figure down. We let him try ridin' with the herdsmen for a bit—that's why we got so many knock-kneed and bow-legged hosses around the ranch—and then we decided he was bending our ridin'-stock out of all recognition, so we made him our cook and nursemaid. Slim feeds us and gets our hot-water bottles of a night."

"I'm—I'm—wheee!—I'm sure Mr. Elton exaggerates," smiled Percy. "Anyhow, I'm very pleased to meet you, Slim!"

"The pleasure is mutual, I'm shah!" said Slim, in a surprisingly affected voice. "It is indeed a great —nay!—a stupendous treat, if I may say so, to meet a real gentleman among all these hooligans!"

"You see," grinned Zack, "Slim ain't forgot his swell Eastern eddication. He always speaks in that high-toned way!"

"Very aristocratic family, Slim's," put in Tiny, the alleged humorist. "Once removed from a vizcount—and once removed to the town gaol for disturbing of the peace on Independence Day!"

"Kindly," said Slim, with dignity, "reserve your witticisms for a more fitting audience. May I show you to your quartahs, Mr. Woodger?"

"Th-th-th—wheee!—thanks!" said Percy.

"Mr. Woodger's bunking down in the mansion," said Bud Elton, indicating the ranch-house. "Everything's arranged. If you follow Slim, pardner, he'll lead you to your bed-roll."

Percival thanked the boss of the Bar Z and followed Slim into the "mansion."

Planning a Shoot-Up!

THE rest of that day Percy spent in an enjoyable tour of the ranch, riding on a quiet horse beside Tiny Waters, the "top-hand," or foreman, of the outfit. Tiny pointed out to him all the interesting details of a cowboy's daily work, studding his conversation with the wisecracks on which he prided himself.

Percy, in his turn, talked to him much as he had talked to Bud Elton on his trip from Rattlesnake Bend—that is, on his mistaken conception of the West as a place bristling with two-gun men—with killers, outlaws, and desperate characters.

Tiny's playful nature could not resist the temptation to pull Percival's leg.

"Did the boss tell you that, now?” said he, not a flicker of a smile on his face. "Say though, he told you wrong, Mr. Woodger! This hyer bit a rangeland is the most lawless in the hull south-west. Yeh, sure! Guess the ole man was scairt of frightening you away, that's what! "Why, only t'other day me an' the boys had to fight for our lives agin a horde of desprit Mexicans. Yeh, sure! Bullets was aflyin’ thicker nor wasps round a jampot. Most never a week passes without we have to lynch some guy for get'n obstreper—obstreper—for g't'n het-up an' loosin' off his shoot-iron into somebody. The lawlessness is sure sump'n awful, Mr. Woodger, hereabouts. Yeh, sure!"

Percival looked surprised, but made no comment.

"Yeh," continued the leg-puller, "and the mortality among sheriffs and state and federal officers round these parts is so high, Mr. Woodger, that the gov'ment supplies 'em each with a free coffin as part of their regulation equipment."

This seemed rather tall to Percy, but he was too polite to say so.

"Do—do—do—wheee!—do you think it would be advisable for me to go about armed, then," said Percy, "during my stay here? I had imagined from the way Mr. Elton spoke that there was no need."

"Say," answered Tiny, with a look of horror, "it's jes' plain suicide to walk about without a coupler six-guns! Why, there might be a desprit character lurking behind that very clump o' mesquite now. I guess I saw it move jes' then!"

Tiny Waters drew one of his long-snouted revolvers impressively and pointed it at the bush indicated.

"Come outer that, you coyote, or I'll let fly!" he shouted.

Percy chuckled as a rabbit darted out of the bush and bounded in fright across the rangeland. Tiny put away his gun without a suspicion of a smirk.

"Only a jackrabbit," he said, "but it don't do to take no chances in these parts. 'Tain't healthy! Shoot first an' converse afterwards is my motter. We mighter bin frozen meat right now if that guy had started shootin'!"

"W-w-what guy?"

"Why, the guy that mighter bin there if it hadn't bin a jackrabbit!" replied Tiny.

"I th—I th—wheee!—I think I see what you mean," said Percy, his puzzled expression giving the lie to his words.

Throughout the tour of the ranch, Tiny continued to give impressive details of the imaginary desperate encounters of the neighbourhood, until at last Percy left him, to take his evening meal in the ranch-house, with the impression that he really tad struck one of the hottest spots in the whole Wild West.

"Anyhow," Percival told himself philosophically, "I wanted to see the real West. It seems to be wilder than I thought. I must take the first opportunity of procuring myself a couple of revolvers for protection. Nothing like being on the safe side!"

Within the cowpunchers' feeding quarters the humorist of the Bar Z was telling his colleagues of the innocent way Percy had swallowed his yarns.

"Say, though, but you should've seen him lap it up! It was most all I could do to stop me face crackin' with innard laughter! Yeh, sure! I told him—"

"I think," said Slim, who was serving the punchers with their supper, "such untruths are in fright-fullay baad taste. Mr. Woodger is ah guest. It is, if I may say so, not at all a hospitable attitude—"

"Aw—shucks! Can your high-falutin' grammar, dook," said Zack Rogers. "There ain't no harm in it, an' the guy looks a good sort—mostlike he'll enjoy the joke same as us when he finds out. He wanted the West to be wild, didn't he?

"Well, it's only sorter charitable, if you look at it thataway, not to disappoint. Why, I've a mind to take my guns and go shoot-up Rattlesnake Bend right now, jes' so's he can have an eyeful of what he's hankerin' after!"

"Say, though, that's an idea!" chipped in Tiny. "Why not?"

"H'm!" said Pizen-oak laconically. "Try shootin' up Rattlesnake with Sheriff Dawson about, and your hospitality will end up in the town stew!"

"All right, granddad," said Tiny. "We needn't really shoot-up Rattlesnake to give our guest the treat he's hankerin' after; we can stage a nice little private hold-up for his benefit right here on the Bar Z! What say, boys?"

Zack Rogers, Dude, and Jan Peek signified that they were tickled by the idea. Pizen-oak seemed doubtful, and Slim frankly disapproved.

"I refuse to lend myself to such ruffiahnly practical jokes," said he.

"Say, fatty," grinned Tiny, giving him a dig in his balloon-like abdomen, "nobody wants to borrow you. Your supple boyish figure ain't quite the style for a hold-up man."

"Tehah!" said Slim.

"There's a fine chance to pull the works to-morrow," went on Tiny. "The boss is ridin' over to Dutton's outfit to see about the shipment of that herd o' beeves he sold him recent. Me an' Zack and you, Jan, an' Dude—"

"Dude ain't in on this," grunted Pizen-oak. "Me an' him's got to take our reg'lar trick on the range. There's a ditchin' job to do to-morrow."

"O.K. Then me an' Zack and Jan here'll see it through. Gee! I guess we're gonner enjoy ourselves. Soon's the boss has cleared out, we'll make some excuse and ride out like we got business to do. Maybe if we could change our duds now—"

"I absolutelay refuse," protested Slim, "to be a party to such a hobbledehoyish scheme. I feel it my duty to warn Mr. Woodger—"

"If you do," grinned Tiny, "I shall feel it my duty to sling your sylphlike form into the hoss pond!"

Rival Desperadoes!

THE three practical jokers—Tiny Waters, Zack Rogers, and Jan Peek—watched eagerly for the going of their boss about his business to Dutton's ranch the following day. He went about midday, and the three began to make preparations for the fake hold-up they had planned for giving Percival Ulysses the Western excitement he seemed to expect.

Pizen-oak and Dude were out on the ranges tending the herd, so there was no risk of obstruction from that quarter. Slim, however, was proving a bit of a handful.

"I tell you I refuse to countenance this practical joke," he insisted for the twentieth time. "It's baad taste to raag a visitor in such a fashion. As soon as you have gone I shall make it my business to warn him!"

"Aw—see here, Slim," protested Zack. "Be reasonable. We're only tryin' to amuse the guy and give him a taste of the Wild West as he's seen it at the cinema. You gotter entertain a guest, ain'tcher, now? An' if you can entertain yourselves at the same time

"The principle of the thing," said Slim, "offends against good taste. Besides, if you're going to start flourishing firearms and—"

"Shucks, nobody'll get hurt. We're loaded with blank."

"Nevertheless—"

" 'Tain't no use trying to argy wi' him," chipped in Jan Peek. "Grab him an' lock him up where he can't interfere!"

"Youse a genius, Dutchy," chuckled Tiny Waters. "Why didn't we think of that beautifully simple solution of the problem before? Grab him, boys!"

"Desist!" yelled Slim as the three boisterous cowpunchers made a dive at him "I refuse to lend myself—"

"On this hyer 'casion," laughed Tiny, as they bore the stout cook of the Bar Z to the ground and seated themselves upon his tummy, pending further instructions from their practical-joker-in-chief, "you're not going to be lent.

"You're jes' sorter gonner be put in storage where you can't make trouble. Bring him to the bunkhouse, boys. He won't be able to skip that hideout!"

The three muscular cattlemen lifted the hefty chunk of protesting avoirdupois that was Slim and bore him bodily across to their sleeping quarters. The bunkhouse was a long, stoutly built shack with only one door, and two windows so small that Slim couldn't get out through them. There was a fanlight in the roof, but that was right out of reach, and there was nothing available to climb up on.

"He won't get loose from here," grinned Tiny. "Heave-oh, boys!"

They slung Slim through the open door like a sack of coals. He landed with a bump within and said "Ouch!" and then the bunkhouse door had slammed and he heard the key turn in the lock.

"Ruffiahns!" he cried. "Release me immediatelay! I protest!"

"Jes' you keep right on protestin'," cried Tiny Waters, "till we get back. S'long, Slim. See you at supper. Come on, boys. Git your hosses. This is where we depitise as desprit bandits!"

The three jokers mounted their horses and rode over to the ranch-house, where they knew they would find Percival Ulysses Woodger. They hailed him from their saddles, and presently Percival appeared on the veranda.

"Me an' the boys has got a bit o' business to see to," explained Tiny. "You'll be all alone on the ranch, Mr. Woodger, for an hour or two, so I thought I'd better warn you 'case you get some of them there desperadoes I was tellin' you about."

"Oh!" said Percival, in a tone that was not at all self-assured. "Th-th—wheee!—thanks awfully! I'll—I'll—er—keep my eyes skinned."

"Here," said Zack, passing one of his guns to Percy. "Take this gat—you may need it."

Percy took the gun gingerly. "B-b-b—whee!—but surely I'm not all alone on the ranch? What about Slim?"

"Oh—Slim!" said Tiny, with a sad shake of the head. "Poor Slim—he's gotten one of his attacks on him."

"Attacks?"

"Yeh, sure' Didn't you know? Slim suffers sump'n awful from fits, and while he has 'em he's powerful dangerous. If you hear him yelling or shouting for help, Mr. Woodger, you give him a wide berth. S'long, Mr. Woodger!

"By the way, they say Two-gun Egbert, the mad killer, is around these parts, and Ruiz, that bloodthirsty rustler, and his mob. Apart from that there's nothing to worry about. Don't mind us leavin' you for a while, does you?"

“Of—of—wheee!—of course not,” answered Percival. "Still, I—er hope you won't be long."

" 'Bout four or five hours, but if you feels nervous or wants assistance, Pizen-oak and Dude are out there on the ranges only three miles off. S’long, Mr. Woodger."

"S-s-s-s—whee!—so long!”

The three cowboys wheeled their horses and rode away. Percival watched them until they disappeared round a bend of the trail. Then he looked at the big Colt revolver in his hand, a little doubtfully.

"H'm! This doesn't seem much of a protection against Two-gun Egbert, the mad killer, and—what's it?—Ruiz and his gang. I sincerely hope neither gent thinks of paying the Bar Z a call this afternoon!" he muttered.

Then he placed the gun in his coat pocket and returned into the ranch-house.

THE three jokers from the Bar Z Ranch little knew that their going was watched. A mile down trail they passed a heavy clump of mesquite concealing three men, who watched their going with interest.

"We better stay away from the ranch about an hour." Tiny was saying as the three rode by. "No good bein' too sudden, or he might tumble."

"O.K.," grinned the other two as they trotted on.

Three evil faces watched them until they were out of sight. No, it was not Two-gun Egbert, the mad killer, nor yet Ruiz and his gang. These men were much more dangerous and more solid than those mythical desperadoes of Tiny Waters' imagination.

Red Grange, the outlaw and gaolbird, was "wanted" in four counties of the State of Texas; "Snitch," his long-nosed companion, had similar claims to notoriety, and it was said that Six-gun Gallagher, the third man, would have to hang three times before his murderous misdeeds could be fairly avenged.

These three had been watching the Bar Z for days, waiting their chance. They knew, as the whole neighbourhood knew, that Bud Elton had just put over a big deal in cattle with Dutton's outfit, and that two thousand dollars had changed hands and was now tucked away somewhere in the Bar Z ranch-house!

These gentry required money very urgently just then, for the net was tightening around them, and unless they could sneak across the border into Mexico they knew they would shortly find themselves face to face with a party of Texas State marshals. Yes, they needed money, and they had no scruples about their methods of getting it. Even another killing or two meant nothing to these three, so long as they could escape over the border.

“That only leaves the fat cook and the lodger!" grinned Grange, when Tiny and his pals had passed. "They're easy meat. We can shoot our way through them like a pound o' drippin'. The boss left the ranch this mornin'. Two of 'em is out on the ranges with the cattle. Them three sez they won't be back for an hour."

"Well," replied Snitch, "what're we waitin' for?"

They left their hiding-place and began to make their way to where they had tethered their horses. A few moments later they had mounted and were riding back down the trail towards the Bar Z Ranch and that desirable two thousand dollars.

Locked in the Bunkhouse!

PERCIVAL ULYSSES WOODGER had hardly returned into the ranch-house when one of Slim's powerful yells penetrated to him from the bunkhouse.

"Poor fellow!" thought Percy. It must be terrible to suffer from such attacks. I must say I feel far from comfortable, being left alone with all these desperadoes about, and with a man suffering from fits!"

Percy stuck his bead outside the ranch-house again and listened. Slim was now thumping on the heavy bunkhouse door and yelling to be released at the top of his voice:

"Mr. Woodger! Mr. Woodger! Hailp! Hailp!"

"Dear me!" Percy told himself. "He seems to be calling for me. I suppose I'd better ignore him, as I was told."

Percy took a seat on the veranda steps and tried, with difficulty, to feel at ease. But he couldn't sit for long and listen to those appealing calls for help.

"Per-per—wheee—perhaps I’d better go and try to comfort him. It surely can't do any harm."

So Percy walked over to the cow-punchers' sleeping quarters, and, during a lull, took his usual whistle to steady his speech, and tapped gingerly on the door.

"Coo-ee, Slim!" he said.

"Oh, thenk goodness, Mr. Woodger!" came Slim's muffled voice from within. "Those ruffiahns have locked me in!"

"All right, Slim. Just keep calm. Why not lie down and rest a bit?" said Percy soothingly. "You shouldn't get yourself excited, you know."

"Excited!" shrieked Slim. "Mai goodness! This is too much!"

"There, there!" Percy said hastily. "I didn't—I didn't—wheee!—I didn't mean to excite you. Just do as I say, now, and perhaps you'll feel better."

At this point Slim resumed his thumping on the door, yelling:

"Let me aht! Let me aht! It's most important! Oh, you merst, Mr. Woodger—you merst!"

"Slim—Slim—wheee!—you mustn't carry on like this! It isn't good for you, you know. I don't know what's the correct treatment for fits, but I'm sure getting yourself all worked up—"

"Fits!" cried Slim, sounding as if he was really suffering from one! "Fits! Fits! Did you say fits? Raally, this is too murch—"

"Well, that's—wheee!—what's wrong with you, you know. Your pals told me that I wasn't to—"

"Mai goodness!" gasped Slim. "Mr. Woodger, they didn't tell you thaat? It's—it's prepostrous! I've never had a fit in mai lafe. It's a foul untruth! Oh, the scoundrels! The absolute villains to say such a thing about me!"

"W-why," stuttered Percy, "aren't you having a fit? I really thought you—"

"Mr. Woodger, this is all part of their dastardly scheme! I'm speaking the truth. Let me aht of hyar, and I'll tell you all. But you merst let me aht. It's most important!"

Percy was thoughtful for a few seconds. After all, Slim might be speaking the truth. There were two sides to the question. He only had it on Tiny's assurance that Slim had temporarily gone off his rocker. Surely it was not good for Slim, in any case, to be imprisoned in the bunkhouse, with no one to comfort him. On the other hand, if he suddenly went berserk on being released—

"If I—whee!—let you out, will you promise to be good ?" said Percy.

Slim gulped, and swallowed his pride.

"All right," he said, as calmly as he could. "But I assure you it's not true abaht mai having fits. I'll tell you all abaht it when I'm free. I can't keep on bawling through this wooden door."

"Very well," called Percy. "But how am I to get you free?"

"Thar's a skylight in' the roof, but I can't reach it. If you can get on to the roof and haul me up—"

"I'll try!"

Percy walked round the bunkhouse and located a drainpipe. By dint of careful manoeuvring he managed to scramble up the pipe on to the roof, crawl to the open fanlight, and look down upon Slim.

"You—whee !—certainly look all right!" he observed.

"I am all right," replied Slim. "Lean dahn and give me a hand up."

Percy leaned through the fanlight and extended a helping hand, and by standing on the very tip of his toes Slim could just grasp it.

"Now," said Slim, "pull me up!"

Percy pulled mightily. He had forgotten that Slim was about four times his own weight. The result of Percy's heroic efforts was to pull himself clean through the fanlight into the interior.

With a yell he hurtled down on top of Slim, and the two of them hit the floor with a bump.

"G-g-g-gosh!" stuttered Percy, sitting up and feeling his bruises. "How—whee!—did that happen?"

"Oh, mai head!" moaned Slim, "You fell on mai head!"

"S-s-s-s—whee!—sorry," said Percy, scrambling up. "Well, here's a pretty to-do. I'm locked in as well, now!"

The two stared at each other in blank amazement at this new predicament.

Slim sat down on one of the bunks, nursing his head.

"And this all comes of that Tiny Waters and his practical jokes!" he moaned. "I merst tell you, Mr. Woodger—they're plotting some scheme to give you a scare—"

Rubbing his bruised head, Slim told Percy about the plot of the jokers.

"The—whee!—rascals!" chuckled Percy. "I had a sort of suspicion Tiny was pulling my leg yesterday. Gosh, though! I wish we could get out of here and give them a whacking surprise!"

IT was while Slim and Percy were locked in the bunkhouse that Red Grange, Snitch, and Six-gun Gallagher arrived at the Bar Z. They looked round suspiciously as they dismounted, but all was quiet.

Cautiously, the three real desperadoes crept towards the ranch-house and tiptoed across the veranda. Grange flung open the door, his gun thrust forward ready to fire.

"O.K.!" he murmured, finding the ranch-house deserted. "I think we got an easy break. Come right in, boys, an' we'll locate that dough in no time."

The three entered the ranch-house, closing the door behind them.

“I—WHEE!—have an idea," said Percy, inside the locked bunk-house. "Do you think you could hoist me on your shoulders, Slim? I think I can just about grab the edge of the fanlight and draw myself up on to the roof."

"I'll try—but don't forget I want to get aht, too!"

"Y-y-yes. I know a way I can manage that!"

So Slim stood upright and Percy climbed on his back and thence on to his fat shoulders.

"Whee! Do you mind if I step on your head?" said Percy, balancing precariously. "Another couple of inches will do it."

"Not at all," answered Slim, with a tinge of sarcasm. "Pray do as you wish, Mr. Woodger. Try and avoid stepping on the bump you've just made by falling on it, though, won't you?"

Percy placed a foot on Slim's head and then made a wild grab at the edge of the fanlight above. He succeeded in clutching it, but Slim went staggering, leaving Percy dangling in the air.

Percy dragged himself up, and after a deal of gasping and scrambling succeeded in getting back on to the roof. He disappeared for a few seconds and then his face appeared again at the open fanlight.

"Are you—whee!—all right?"

"Perfectlay," groaned Slim, "apart from a kick in the face—"

"Whee! Hang on, then. I'll have you out in two ticks. I think the jokers must have arrived already and gone into the ranch-house to look for me. There's three horses here."

Percy disappeared then, and presently the unhappy Slim saw him again at the skylight.

"Here—whee!—catch this!" Percy said, throwing a length of lasso down. "Put the loop round your body, and I'll have you drawn up in no time. The other end is tied to a horse's saddle. You're too heavy for me to pull up alone, y'see."

Slim passed the noose of the lasso over his shoulders and settled it under his armpits.

"Now I'll just lead the horse a few yards away," said Percy, "and you'll be drawn up through the skylight. But don't make a noise. If they hear us it'll spoil everything."

Percy disappeared, and there were faint sounds of him scrambling off the roof to the ground. A few moments later Slim felt the pressure of the rope under his armpits. It tautened suddenly and Slim's twenty stone sailed into the air.

Bump! went Slim's head against the ceiling, and Slim gave a howl. The hauling business had happened so suddenly that he had no time to guide himself through the skylight, with the result that his head went smack against the ceiling!

Slim hung near the ceiling of the bunkhouse with the rope still tugging at him and trying to draw him through the skylight. The pressure of it was overpowering. Slim felt his chest would burst with the strain, and in spite of his semi-dazed condition from the blow on the head, he yelled for help at the top of his voice.

In due course, Percy reappeared. "What's—whee!—holding you up, Slim?" he asked.

"The rope—it's strangling me! I'm ch-choking! I'm—gloop!—suffocating! I'm——"

"All right," said Percy, "don't lose your head!" and started hacking frantically at the rope with his penknife. As the last strands parted, thud! went Slim to the floor of the bunkhouse, evoking further yells from the unfortunate cook of the Bar Z.

"S-s-s-sorry!" said Percy, from the skylight, when Slim had recovered sufficiently to sit up and moan. "I'll —whee!—I'll get another rope. Hang on. I'll have you out all right!"

Percy hurried away, and in a few moments was back again with a new lasso, the noose of which he insisted upon Slim again putting round himself. The fat cook did so, fixing the rope over his arms.

"This time I'll lead the horse more slowly," said Percy. "So-d-don't be afraid. Just ease yourself gently through the skylight when you're high enough."

Slim's only comment was a moan. Percy disappeared, and then Slim was again drawn up, more steadily, towards the skylight. He managed to hit the hole correctly this time. But—he had omitted to measure his girth against the width of the opening.

Slim's head emerged into the great wide world, but his nether regions remained dangling in the bunkhouse. The pull of the rope only served to jam him tighter in the skylight. In desperation he called out.

"Shush! Wheee! Don't make such a noise!" admonished Percy, appearing again on the roof. "What's up now?"

"I'm—I'm stuck!" gasped Slim. "The skylight isn't large enough for me to get through!"

"So—so—it isn't!" said the surprised Percy. "I never noticed that!" .

Percival tugged at Slim, but he would not budge. He tried shoving him back through the skylight, but was equally unsuccessful.

"Here's a to-do!" said Percy thoughtfully. "You're stuck fast. You won't come out and you won't go in!"

"For goodness' sake stop that horse pulling at the rope! It's jamming me tighter every second!" yelped Slim.

So Percy nipped off the roof again, and to Slim's relief the rope presently slackened. But Percy did not return to the roof at once, and when he did finally reappear before the unhappy Slim and undid the rope, he wore a rather sheepish grin.

"I—I—whee!—I say! I am an ass, you know! I've just walked round the front of the bunkhouse and discovered that the key's been in the door all the time! I never noticed it!"

"Oh," groaned Slim, "this is too murch!"

Bruised and Battered Bandits!

MEANWHILE, within the ranch-house the three thieves were getting cross. They had ransacked it, but could find no sign of a hiding-place for the money. And their search had been so intent that they had failed to notice the weird and wonderful series of sounds which came from the bunkhouse across the way as Slim received his various bumps.

"I tellya the money's here some-wheres," growled Red Grange, "and we're gonner get it! It's no good searehin' around like this. It must be hidden some place. Best way out is to find some guy and stick him up and make him tell!"

"Swell notion!" they agreed, and the three left the ranch-house in search of somebody to "stick up."

By now Percival Ulysses Woodger had opened the door of the bunkhouse with the key that had been there all the time, and was endeavouring manfully to haul Slim back into the room by the legs. But Slim was jammed tight. He simply would not budge.

The three thieves heard these sounds of tremendous straining within the bunkhouse, and crept towards the open door—and just then Percy came to the door!

For a moment he felt startled, for the three looked very sinister—their faces covered to the eyes with silk scarves, and with long-nosed, fierce-looking weapons in their hands. But Percy remembered the jokers!

"W-w-wel—whee!—welcome, bandits, to our humble home!" he smiled pleasantly.

"Funny guy, huh?" snarled Red Grange. "Well, you won't feel so smart in a minute. Where's that money hidden? Quick, tell us, or we—"

"I believe," continued Percy happily, "it is deposited in the old oaken chest along with the family mortgage."

"I’ll give you three minutes to tell us where that money's hidden!" gritted Gallagher.

Percy backed into the bunkhouse as the desperadoes advanced, the muzzles of their three guns only a foot from his chest.

"How—wheee!—how would you like to shoot me, gentlemen?" continued Percy, posing as for a photograph. "Front face or profile? How do I look best?" Then he burst out laughing. "It's—it's no good, boys. I—whee!—I can't keep this up any longer. Your little game's rumbled. I know your guns are only loaded with blank."

"Blank!" growled Bed Grange, "See here, Mr. Wise-guy, jes' park your eyes on that little winder over there! I'll show you how many blank bullets is in my gun!"

As Percy looked towards the window indicated Grange levelled his gun at it and pulled trigger. A crash, a stab of flame, and the glass of the window shattered to bits.

"Now," began Red Grange, "maybe you'll tell us—"

At that point his sentence came to an abrupt conclusion. Something that felt like an avalanche descended suddenly upon the bandits, and the three of them went sprawling in a heap, yelling with surprise and alarm.

Percival Ulysses blinked. Where but a moment ago had stood the three unpleasant-looking bandits was a confused mass of waving arms and legs, on top of which reposed Slim.

The shock of the revolver explosion had somehow jerked him loose from his wedged position in the skylight, and he had descended suddenly upon the heads of the three thieves who, until the moment he struck them, had been totally unaware of his presence.

"That—wheee!—that was a splendid idea, Slim!" cheered Percy, seeing that the cook's enormous weight had pinned the three men beneath him. "Just keep where you are for a moment. These jokers are in a lovely position to receive a little well-deserved chastisement!"

Percy looked about him and presently found a nice piece of flexible board, with which he proceeded to smite the projecting rears of the squirming figures beneath Slim.

"This"—whack!—"is to teach you jokers" —whack!— "a lesson"—whack! whack!—" not to tell tall tales and play"—whack!—"practical jokes on your visitors! Hallo! What's up now?"

Percival's attention, and that of Slim, was suddenly diverted by a terrific din outside the ranch-house. They looked out, and to their amazement saw three horsemen prancing about, firing their guns in the air and shouting at the top of their voices in a blood-curdling way.

"G-g-good heavens!" gasped Percy. "More bandits?"

"Bandits mai foot!" said Slim. "That's Tiny Waters and the others; I recognise their horses!"

"Then—then—whee!—who're these fellows?" gasped Percy, pointing to the squashed and battered thieves wriggling beneath Slim's form.

"You know," said Slim, "I do believe they're real bandits! Quickly—go and tell those silly asses to stop making chumps of themselves out thar and come to mai assistance!"

Half an hour later, with the three battered and bruised bandits safely locked in a corral waiting to be transferred to the Rattlesnake Bend gaol, Tiny Waters and the two other jokers were explaining, a little sheepishly, how it had all happened, to Bud Elton, who had returned on hearing the news, and to the Sheriff of Rattlesnake Bend.

Slim and Percival Ulysses Woodger looked on with a superior air and filled in the story from their point of view, thereby casting not a little glory upon themselves.

"Well," said Bud Elton, "it's a dinged good thing I thought of taking that money with me this afternoon! I nearly left it in the drawer of my desk. And see here, boys"—this to Tiny and the two others— "next time you want to play a joke please don't leave the ranch deserted."

"Yes—wheeee!" said Percival Ulysses. "The West isn't quite so wild as I thought, but it's quite wild enough, on the whole."

"It isn't half so wild as I was," grunted Slim, feeling his many bruises, "when I got stuck fast in that skylight!"

Next Saturday, Perry launches out as a Gold-Miner, and provides you with a hundred-percent Fun and Excitement!

 

HOYT, Charles Keith—Passed away on Friday, March 8, 2013, in QEII Health Sciences Centre in Halifax. Born in North Sydney, on April 19, 1921, son of Wilbert V. and Hazel K. (Ryder) Hoyt. After high school he joined the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1939 and served as both an instructor while in Canada and as a radar officer overseas where he met his future wife, Patricia “Paddy" Margaret Page who served in the WAAF. After the war, discharged from the RCAF as Lieutenant, he earned a BSc and MSc in Physics at Dalhousie University. During this period he went back to England and convinced Paddy Page to marry him. He then went on to earn a PhD in Physics at MIT. He returned to Dalhousie in 1955 to join the Physics Dept., focusing his work in optics, and retiring as Professor in 1986. He enjoyed teaching and many of his students maintained contact with Keith long after their time at Dalhousie. He is survived by children, Susan (late Lewis) Pickett, Moncton, N.B.; Brian (Petra Rykers) Hoyt, Stillwater Lake; Louise (Ted) Mussett, Dartmouth, and Allen Hoyt, Montreal; sister, Hazel Braman, North Sydney; grandchildren, Peter (Jenna) Hoyt, Johanna (Ross Bain) Hoyt, Michelle Mussett, Elliot Mussett and Jonathan Mussett; nieces, Nancy, Deborah and Catherine. He will be missed by special four-legged friends, Bella and Jimmy. He was predeceased by his wife of 61 years, Paddy and his stepbrother, Kaye Lemoine. He had a strong interest in music and played the French horn as an amateur musician for many years. He had a great curiosity in, and appreciation of the natural world, especially animals of all types. Cats held a special place in his heart. Although in later years his vision failed him, he maintained a strong mind, keen wit and good humour to the end. Cremation has taken place. No visitation or service by request. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to two organizations strongly supported by Paddy and Keith in the last three decades of their lives: the Bide Awhile Animal Shelter Society, Dartmouth, and Oak-lawn Farm Zoo, Aylesford.