Dicks from under the carpet, and climbed on a chair to cull others from the top of the wardrobe. Then, slipping that little door open, I crawled in over the rafters with a stump of candle. There I kept my library. There was my real cave; the bedroom thereafter became the grassy pocket in front of it. There I kept my heaven-sent library, thence I educed such volumes as the little boy next door had not read. He preferred Deadwood Dick Junior Deadwood Dick (Junior) at Galveston, and the like. Why should he not? There is room for us all. These were great days. They had their pathos and their misery, doubtless; but they had, also, their great joys. Even the rain rub-a-dubbed good music on the skylight-of that room.

I was undone at last, as even all the great hold-up men seem eventually to be undone. The paper round the diminutive door began to show that the door was used. The sleuths had a clue; the stronghold was menaced. I succumbed to some youthful illness and probably babbled my secret. At any rate, they were all discovered there all that good company, Deadwood Dick, Always on Hand, Jack Harkaway, the Young Stowaways, Ching Ching; and they all went to the faggot. Do I repine? No, not unduly. They were, by then, all in my heart for ever.

And now, thirty years after that day of fire and sermon, I am off- to the Black Hills. That is why I began by saying it is a wonderful world. I am going to other places as well, of course, other places with haunting names, some of which I have seen already. I am going to see the colored, quick Kootenai River, and the Saskatchewan, and, perhaps - but what matter the other names? The berth is booked. One place that I am going to visit for the first time is Deadwood. When I arrive I shall, of course, look at the

reports of the mining companies and allow real estate agents to feel hopeful as they recite to me the facts regarding the increasing value of town lots in Hot Springs, Rapid City - and Deadwood. The look of interest on my face will, I am sure, delight them. If they desire to take me into the mountains to show me a 'sure thing proposition,' I shall go with them gaily and be duly shown. I may even, perhaps, then look so absent of mien, in the midst of these dear old 'rocky fastnesses,' standing on some 'divide,' gazing down on some affluent 'pocket,' that they may think I am good at any rate for one town lot and a handful of shares.

one

That shall be as it shall be. If they can show me Dick's veritable lair I think I shall buy a lot; not that I want only as a small return to them. But this I know: I shall not be listening with entire concentration to the 'proposition' of the town lots, or the 'speel' of the assay. I shall really be thinking of the old rocking-horse, the 'cache' in the rafters among the bellwires and the cobwebs, and the Deadwood Dick I knew thirty years ago. May he rest in peace! He was good to us (at least in fiction) when we were boys.

face, he is the finest fellow in the world

for a Basque. I might add that he has something of a temper, a characteristic which, as you know, is widely shared among his compatriots. When Manoël becomes angry his face takes on a fiery red color, his eyes dart lightning glances, he foams at the mouth even; in fact, he looks exactly like Mars about to enter battle. You will hardly believe that under it all he preserves his coolness.

On the 30th of July, 1914, Manoël was quite ignorant as to the value of his temper. A year later, however, he was no longer ignorant, for it had rescued him from captivity in Germany.

For Manoël, who was an officer and a captain even, had a misfortune. Three weeks after the opening of the campaign he was taken prisoner, and interned in some Silesian camp. This unhappy adventure did not leave him in good humor. I have told you that he had a terrible temper, or shall I say that his manifestations were terrible? Now the Germans are not agreeable jailers as Manoël soon discovered. So just to please himself, three or four times a week, he would roll his eyes simply to make them shine; and would gnash his teeth to carry out the performance in the best form. His German guardians gazed upon him almost stupefied, but Manoël himself found pleasure in it, and when the fit was over, would saunter away to chat with his companions in misfortune.

One of his companions, a Russian physician, who had seen Manoël going through his facial exercises, one day said to him:

'Really, you do that very well. Why don't you do something with it? For instance, why do you not pretend to be a victim of that malady which killed Nietzsche?'

"The devil.' answered Manoël. 'that

is a bit difficult, you understand. Moreover, I have no desire to enter my name at the undertaker's.'

'I am not talking about dying,' said the Russian physician, 'I am suggesting that you should imitate madness.' 'But I am not mad!'

"Then you must be so. Listen now. German alienists pretend to have discovered a mental malady having a common origin with that general paralysis which struck down Nietzsche, a mental trouble of varying symptoms and quite incurable. Now, French specialists have always denied the existence of this special form of madness. What a joy, what a triumph it would be for these Germans to find that this trouble exists and that a Frenchman is a victim of it! Be sure that they will not have the slightest doubt of it, and will be only too glad to select you as a patient.'

'But I don't see what that will get me.'

'Monsieur, I thought you were more intelligent. Do you not see that once your case has been entered and catalogued you will be regarded as incurable. Therefore, you are a grand malade, therefore you are incapable of carrying arms, therefore it is their duty to send you to your own country.'

'I see, I see,' said Manoël. 'What are the symptoms of this marvelous and benevolent disease?'

"You have sudden rages. your eyes roll; you foam at the mouth and gnash your teeth, even as a tiger in search of prey.'

'Easy, I can do it any time.'

'At that moment your pulse rises.' 'Yes, I can do that too.' 'You suffer from insomnia.'

'I shall find that harder, I sleep like a child.'

'I will attend to that then. Finally you must manifest a sense of mental confusion.'

'I suppose that means saying foolish things. I think I can do that too.' Well, now you have my Manoël, foaming at the mouth, gnashing his teeth, darting lightning glances from his eyes like an angry Jupiter from Olympus at least three times a day; he stands under a shower bath with his clothes on, lets his beard grow and affects a convulsive tremor. Now for the insomnia. Manoël is locked up in a cell with another prisoner, the latter really a sick man. In the morning the German doctors ask the sick man: 'Well, how did your crazy companion spend the night?' 'He has been insufferable,' answered the sick man, 'he kept me awake the whole night.' And the German doctors nod their heads sagely: not a single symptom is lacking!

To put an end to any possible suspicion, Manoël one day leaped at the throat of the German officer who happened to be standing by. The Germans went through the farce of condemning him to be shot. Manoël allowed himself to be taken to the place of execution laughing incontinently. This event destroyed the last doubts of the Germans. It was at once decided that this unhappy madman should be returned to France.

It was at this point that Manoël revealed his true genius. He made it appear that the sick man, whom he disturbed nightly, was the only person able to do anything with him in a crisis, and in order to keep him quiet in the train, the other Frenchman was sent along with him.

The journey was soon over. Thanks to his talents Manoël finds himself in France. He has himself shaved, and behaves exactly like everyone else. I lose sight of him for two years. Then one day I meet him by chance and he cries out to me:

'Oh, my friend, I am going mad.'

'Why?' said I. 'Of what use will madness be to you now?'

to me.

'No, he replied, seriously, 'I shall go mad. Listen to what has happened I returned to France in a special train of grands blessés and grands malades. The train stopped at Lyons and the doctors made their inspection. "Are you a grand blessé ?" "No, I was unwounded when I was taken prisoner." "Then you are a grand malade?" "No, I escaped by simulating madness. Examine me and see if I am crazy." So they look me over, make me talk, stare into the pupils of my eyes, and the surgeon in chief concludes: "This fellow is no more crazy than I am.

"Then what is the matter?' said I. "The matter? Wait a minute. I arrive in Paris and I go to the war ministry. There I ask for the sum due me during my captivity. The ministry replies: "Only escaped prisoners, grands blessés and grands malades have a right to their arrears of pay. What are you?"

'I reflected a moment and I answered: "I am an escaped prisoner."

""An escaped prisoner! But you returned in a train of grands blessés and grands malades. You must not try any monkey business here."

right to go crazy. The other day, however, I saw him again. He was calm and seemed perfectly satisfied with his fate.

'My arrears of pay

did you know

that I had finally been paid them?'

'Well, well, what did you do?'

'I went back to the war ministry, stood by the cashier's window, rolled my eyes, foamed at the mouth and gnashed my teeth. It quite upset them, and they paid me.'

And all this shows that Manoël has no luck when he is not himself.

-

THIS title must not be misunderstood. I have no intention of referring to those books no doubt of great value which are intended to minister to the spiritual well-being of a sick person; the books or booklets with which kindly, well-meaning persons arm themselves when they sally forth to visit the patient who is a prisoner to his bed, and by which they hope to bring to him consolation, or to arouse him to a sense of his moral failings and shortcomings. Such books are for special occasions and for a limited class of reader. And though many might welcome a censor of such publications or wish that some expert might exercise a stricter control over their use, I have no claims, beyond having been an occasional sufferer, to speak of their merits or demerits.

My purpose is larger. As one who is a regular and constant reader in bed and who finds that the time thus spent is by no means the least pleasant or profitable portion of the day, I write for those who, like myself, have experience of its delights, and in order to help those who probably, by a faulty choice of book, are casual, but not confirmed, readers in bed.

Naturally, those who can appreciate the pleasure will be to some extent limited in number. They will not, for instance, include many married people; for whatever may be the advantages of the connubial state, it has the grave disadvantage that it puts an end, as a rule, to reading in bed. Nor do I count among the privileged class those who read merely to induce sleep. They have no right to the title of reader in bed. They are to be classed with Sir Walter Scott's gardener who boasted that for many years his master's books had never failed to produce an instantaneous soporific effect on him. To people of this type the choice of book is indifferent so long as it is dull and heavy, and the two-penny box of any second-hand bookshop will supply their needs. But the true reader in bed wants to read, not sleep, and in order to get the most out of his time it is of the utmost importance that a wise selection should be made of books suitable to the time and place.

I have no intention of suggesting any particular books, and certainly I shall not attempt to draw up a list of the hundred best bedside books. Even to say, as was said by a well-known pub

lic man of a certain amusing book, that it ought to be at every bedside was to go beyond his province and was a proof that the speaker had not grasped the principle of reading in bed. You may say of a book that everyone ought to read it, but to say that everyone ought to read it in bed is a gross abuse of a reader's liberty and an interference with the claims of his personality; for nowhere more than in bed should the choice of books be unfettered.

It may be your duty to read the works of Gibbon, Darwin, Spencer, but it is certainly not your duty to take the works of these authors to bed with you. No, the liberty of choice must be maintained, and many books quite suitable for reading by day are unsuitable at night. Any book, for instance, that requires real study should be banished from the bedside. It is only the schoolboy who may sometimes be allowed to get up in bed the lesson which he has neglected during the day and which he will be expected to know on the morrow, but for the bed-reader rest and relaxation are required. And for this, first of all I would lay down, though some may not at first agree with me, that the ordinary novel is unsuitable. It is too long, and if it is worth reading at all it is too exciting, so that it encourages you to read too late, or, if you have sufficient strength of character to break off in the middle, the mind is filled with thoughts and pictures which are too agitating and not conducive to repose. Staying at a friend's house a short time ago, I found that the collection of bedside literature provided for me consisted of half a dozen cheap, popular red-bound novels, a few books of devotion, More's Utopia, and White's Natural History of Selborne. The reason of the choice of the last named lay in the fact that my friend's house was not

far from the famous naturalist's home; but how many people would care to sit, or rather, lie down to such a work in order to pass a pleasant hour before settling to sleep? For the other books in this collection nothing is to be said. They were lacking in all the qualities necessary for a true bedside book. And the unwisdom of the choice of some of them! What is the use of giving a man who is spending a couple of nights at your house popular novels to read in bed if you want to economize the electricity?

The only excuse that can be made for my friend is that he is married and is not himself a reader in bed and thus knows little of the requirements of those who are. Probably he had made the first choice on the assumption that most people like something light; later there appears to have come to his mind the memory of earlier teaching as to the thoughts most suitable before retiring to rest. Hence the devotional books. White's Selborne was added in order to give local color. But why More's Utopia was added I cannot imagine.

I recall another unhappy selection of bedside books. This was made by a man whose main, one might almost say only, interest in life was sport. For some reason or other he had promised to put up for the night a bishop with a European reputation as an historian. The bishop's host knew his guest's reputation but not his works, and he decided that the only suitable books for the episcopal bedside would be historical. Unfortunately his library was not up to date; but after a good deal of search old copies of Rollin and Hume were discovered, dusted and arranged triumphantly by the side of the bishop's bed. The bishop, who was a good deal more than an historian, confessed the morning after his arrival that he had been a good deal perturbed when