Chapter 23

When he was half-way up, he suddenly became conscious that he was very hungry. He hurriedly ate some sandwiches and drank some water, and again gave himself up entirely to mental labor. When, at last, the noise of machinery above him and the sound of voices aroused him from his abstraction, and the car emerged upon the surface of the earth, Clewe hastily slid back the door and stepped out. At that instant he felt himself encircled by a pair of arms. Bryce was near by, and there were other men by the engines, but the owner of those arms thought nothing of this.

"Margaret!" cried Clewe, "how came you here?"

"I have been here all the time," she exclaimed; "or, at least, nearly all the time." And as she spoke she drew back and looked at him, her eyes full of happy tears. "Mr. Bryce telegraphed to me the instant he knew you were going down, and I was here before you had descended half-way."

"What!" he cried. "And all those messages came from you?"

"Nearly all," she answered. "But tell me, Roland--tell me; have you been successful?"

"I am successful," he answered. "I have discovered everything!"

Bryce came forward.

"I will speak to you all very soon," said Clewe. "I can't tell you anything now. Margaret, let us go. I wish to talk to you, but not until I have been to my office. I will meet you at your house in a very few minutes." And with that he left the building and fairly ran to his office.

A quarter of an hour later Roland entered Margaret's library, where she sat awaiting him. He carefully closed the doors and windows. They sat side by side upon the sofa.

"Now, Roland," she said, "I cannot wait one second longer. What is it that you have discovered?"

"When I arrived at the bottom of the shaft," he began, "I found myself in a cleft, I know not how large, made in a vast mass of transparent substance, hard as the hardest rock and as transparent as air in the light of my electric lamps. My shell rested securely upon this substance. I walked upon it. It seemed as if I could see miles below me. In my opinion, Margaret, that substance was once the head of a comet."

"What is the substance?" she asked, hastily.

"It is a mass of solid diamond!"

Margaret screamed. She could not say one word.

"Yes," said he, "I believe the whole central portion of the earth is one great diamond. When it was moving about in its orbit as a comet, the light of the sun streamed through this diamond and spread an enormous tail out into space; after a time this [v]nucleus began to burn."

"Burn!" exclaimed Margaret.

"Yes, the diamond is almost pure [v]carbon; why should it not burn? It burned and burned and burned. Ashes formed upon it and encircled it; it still burned, and when it was entirely covered with ashes it ceased to be transparent and ceased to be a comet; it became a planet, and revolved in a different orbit. It still burned within its covering of ashes, and these gradually changed to rock, to metal, to everything that forms the crust of the earth."

She gazed upon him, entranced.

"Some parts of this great central mass of carbon burn more fiercely than other parts. Some parts do not burn at all. In volcanic regions the fires rage; where my great shell went down it no longer burns. Now you have my theory. It is crude and rough, for I have tried to give it to you in as few words as possible."

"Oh, Roland," she cried, "it is absurd! Diamond! Why, people will think you are crazy. You must not say such a thing as that to anybody. It is simply impossible that the greater part of this earth should be an enormous diamond."

"Margaret," he answered, "nothing is impossible. The central portion of this earth is composed of something; it might just as well be diamond as anything else. In fact, if you consider the matter, it is more likely to be, because diamond is a very original substance. As I have said, it is almost pure carbon. I do not intend to repeat a word of what I have told you to any one--at least until the matter has been well considered--but I am not afraid of being thought crazy. Margaret, will you look at these?"

He took from his pocket some shining substances resembling glass. Some of them were flat, some round; the largest was as big as a lemon; others were smaller fragments of various sizes.

"These are pieces of the great diamond which were broken when the shell struck the bottom of the cave in which I found it. I picked them up as I felt my way around this shell, when walking upon what seemed to me solid air. I thrust them into my pocket, and I would not come to you, Margaret, with this story, until I had visited my office to find out what these fragments are. I tested them; their substance is diamond!"

Half-dazed, she took the largest piece in her hand.

"Roland," she whispered, "if this is really a diamond, there is nothing like it known to man!"

"Nothing, indeed," said he.

She sat staring at the great piece of glowing mineral which lay in her hand. Its surface was irregular; it had many faces; the subdued light from the window gave it the appearance of animated water. He felt it necessary to speak.

"Even these little pieces," he said, "are most valuable jewels."

"Roland," she suddenly cried, excitedly, "these are riches beyond imagination! What is common wealth to what you have discovered? Every living being on earth could--"

"Ah, Margaret," he interrupted, "do not let your thoughts run that way. If my discovery should be put to the use of which you are thinking, it would bring poverty to the world, not wealth, and every diamond on earth would be worthless."

She trembled. "And these--are they to be valued as common pebbles?"

"Oh no," said he; "these broken fragments I have found are to us riches far beyond our wildest imagination."

"Roland," she cried, "are you going down into that shaft for more of them?"

"Never, never, never again," he answered. "What we have here is enough for us, and if I were offered all the good that there is in this world, which money cannot buy, I would never go down into that cleft again. There was one moment, as I stood in that cave, when an awful terror shot into my soul that I shall never be able to forget. In the light of my electric lamps, sent through a vast transparent mass, I could see nothing, but I could feel. I put out my foot, and I found it was upon a sloping surface. In another instant I might have slid--where? I cannot bear to think of it!" FRANK E. STOCKTON.

=HELPS TO STUDY=

What happened to Clewe's automatic shell? What did he decide to do? Tell of the preparations he made for his descent. What occurred when he reached the end of the shaft? Of what was Clewe thinking so intently while making his ascent? Why did he go at once to his office? What conclusion did he reach as to the central part of the earth? What did he have to prove the correctness of his theory? Why was he unwilling ever to make the descent again? This story was written about the end of the nineteenth century: what great scientific discoveries have been made since then?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING

A Journey to the Center of the Earth--Jules Verne. The Adventures of Captain Horn--Frank R. Stockton.

FOOTNOTE:

[391-*] Copyright by Harper & Brothers.

A STOP AT SUZANNE'S

The author of this sketch, a young American aviator, a resident of Richmond, Virginia, was killed in battle in August, 1918.

Suzanne is a very pretty girl, I was told, but the charm of "Suzanne's" wasn't with her alone, for, always, one spoke of the deliciously-tasting meal, how nice the old madame is, and how fine a chap is her _mari_, the father of Suzanne. Then of the garden in the back--and before you had finished listening you didn't know which was the most important thing about "Suzanne's." All you knew was that it was the place to go when on an aeroplane voyage.

At the pilotage office I found five others ahead of me; all of us were bound in the same direction. We were given [v]barographs, altimeters and maps and full directions as to forced landings and what to do when lost. We hung around the voyage hangar until about eight in the morning, but there was a low mist and cloudy sky, so we could not start out until afternoon; and I didn't have luncheon at "Suzanne's."

After noon several of the others started out, but I wanted to plan my supper stop for the second point, so I waited until about four o'clock before starting.

Almost before I knew it a village, which on the map was twelve kilometers away, was slipping by beneath me and then off to one side was a forest, green and cool-looking and very regular around the edges. Pretty soon I came to a deep blue streak bordered by trees, and was so interested in it--it wound around under a railroad track, came up and brushed by lots of back gates and, finally, fell in a wide splash of silver over a little fall by a mill--that I forgot all about flying and suddenly woke up to the fact that one wing was about as low as it could get and that the nose of the machine was doing its best to follow the wing.

Long before I came to the stopping point, I could see the little white hangar. The field is not large, but it is strange, so you come down rather anxiously, for if you can't make that field the first time, you never will be able to fly, they tell you before leaving. I glided down easily enough, for, after all, it is just that--either you can or you can't--and made a good-enough landing. The sergeant signed my paper, and a few minutes later away I went for "Suzanne's." The next stop is near a little village--Suzanne's village--so when I came to the field and landed I was sure to be too tired to go up again immediately. Instead, off I went to town after making things right with the man in charge. That wasn't a bit difficult, either, for all I did was to wink as hard as I could, and he understood perfectly.

I knew where "Suzanne's" was, so I made directly for it. It was a little early, but you should never miss the [v]_apertif_. With that first, success is assured; without it, it is like getting out of bed on the wrong foot.

Up I marched to the unimposing door and walked in to the main room--a big room, with long, wooden tables and benches and a zinc bar at one end, where all kinds of bottles rested. It isn't called "Suzanne's," of course; it only has that name among us.

As I closed the door behind me and looked about, a _bonne_ was serving several men at a corner table, and behind the bar a big, red-faced, stout man was pouring stuff into bottles. He looked at me a moment and then with a tremendous "_Tiens!_" he came out from behind the tables and advanced toward me.

"_Bon jour_," he said; "do you come from far?"

"Oh, no," I answered, "only from ----."

"_Tiens!_" he repeated; then, "Ah, you are from the school." _L'ecole_, he called it.

From _l'ecole_, I admitted, and, taking me by the arm, he led me to a door at the rear. Through this he propelled me, and then in his huge voice he called "_Suzanne, un [v]pilote!_" and I was introduced.

As he shut the door, I could just see the corner table with the three old men staring open-mouthed, the wine before them forgotten, the bread and cheese in their hands untasted; then, down the stairs came light steps and a rustle of skirts, and Suzanne was before me with smiling face and outstretched hand.

Her instant welcome, the genuine smile! Almost immediately, I understood the fame of this little station, so far from everything but the air route.

Her charm is indescribable. She is pretty, she is well dressed, but it isn't that. It is a sincerity of manner, complete hospitality; at once you are accepted as a bosom friend of the family--that is the charm of Suzanne's.

After a few questions as to where I came from, how long I had been there, and where I was going, Suzanne led me upstairs to be presented to [v]"_Ma belle mere_," a white-haired old lady sitting in a big, straight-backed chair. Then, after more courtesies had been extended to me, Suzanne preceded me down to the garden and left me alone while she went in to see that the supper was exceptionally good.

A soft footstep on the gravel walk sounded behind me, and I turned to see one of the most beautiful women I ever beheld. She was tall and slender, and as she came gracefully across the lawn she swung a little work bag from one arm. All in black she was, with a lace shawl over her bare head. Like every one in that most charming and hospitable house, there was no formality or show about her. She came, smiling, and sat on the bench beside me, drawing open her work bag. I could not help noticing, particularly, her beautiful eyes, for they told the story, a story too common here, except that her eyes had changed now to an expression of resigned peace. Then she told me about Suzanne.

Long before, ages and ages ago it seemed, but really only four years, a huge, ungainly bird fell crashing to earth and from the wreck a man was taken, unconscious. He was carried to "Suzanne's," and she nursed him and cared for him until he was well again. "Suzanne was very happy then," madame told me. And no wonder, for the daring aviator and Suzanne were in love. She nursed him back to health, but when he went away he left his heart forever with her.

They were engaged, and every little while he would fly over from his station to see Suzanne. Those were in the early days and aviation--well, even at that, it hasn't changed so much.

One day a letter came for Suzanne, and with a catch at her throbbing heart she read that her _fiancé_ had been killed. [v]"_Mort pour la patrie_," it said, and Suzanne was never the same afterward.

For many months the poor girl grieved, but, finally, she began to realize that what had happened to her had happened to thousands of other girls, too, and, gradually, she took up the attitude that you find throughout this glorious country. Only her eyes now tell the sad story.

One evening two men walked into the café and from their talk Suzanne knew they were from _l'ecole_. She sat down and listened to them. They talked about the war, about aviation, about deeds of heroism, and Suzanne drank in every word, for they were talking the language of her dead lover. The two aviators stayed to dinner, but the big room was not good enough. They must come back to the family dinner--to the intimacy of the back room.

They stayed all night and left early next morning, but before they left they wrote their names in a big book. To-day, Suzanne has the book, filled full of names, many now famous, many names that are only a memory--that is how it started.

When the two pilots went back to _l'ecole_, they spoke in glowing terms of "Suzanne's," of the soft beds, of the delicious dinner, and, I think, mostly of Suzanne.

Visitors came after that to eat at "Suzanne's," and to see her famous book. They came regularly and, finally, "Suzanne's" became an institution.

Always, a _pilote_ was taken into the back room; he ate with the family, he told them all the news from _l'ecole_, and, in exchange, he heard stories about the early days, stories that will never be printed, but which embody examples of the heroism and intelligence that have done their part to develop aviation.

Soon, we went in to dinner, and such a dinner! Truly, nothing is too good for an aviator at "Suzanne's," and they give of their best to these wandering strangers. They do not ask your name, they call every one _Monsieur_, but before you leave you sign the book and they all crowd around to look, without saying anything. Your name means nothing yet, but a year from now, perhaps, who can tell? In the first pages are names that have been bywords for years and some that are famous the world over.

After dinner, Suzanne slipped away, presently to reappear with a special bottle and glasses. I felt sure this was part of the entertainment afforded all their winged visitors, for they went about it in a practised manner; each was familiar with his or her part, but to me it was all delightfully new.

Our glasses were filled, and Suzanne raised hers up first. Without a word, she looked around the circle. Her eyes met them all, then rested with madame. She had not said a word; it was "papa" who proposed my health, and as the bottoms went up, Suzanne and madame both had a struggle to repress a tear. They were drinking my health, but their thoughts were far away, and in my heart I was wishing that happiness might again come to them. Suzanne certainly deserves it.

When I returned to school, they asked, "Did you stop at 'Suzanne's'?" And now to the others, just ready to make the voyage, I always say, "Be sure to stop at 'Suzanne's'."

GREAYER CLOVER.

THE MAKING OF A MAN

I

Marmaduke, otherwise Doggie, Trevor owned a pleasant home set on fifteen acres of ground. He had an income of three thousand pounds a year. Old Peddle, the butler, and his wife, the housekeeper, saved him from domestic cares. He led a well-regulated life. His meals, his toilet, his music, his wall-papers, his drawing and embroidery, his sweet peas, his chrysanthemums, his postage stamps, and his social engagements filled the hours not claimed by slumber.

In the town of Durdlebury, Doggie Trevor began to feel appreciated. He could play the piano, the harp, the viola, the flute, and the clarionette, and sing a mild tenor. Besides music, Doggie had other accomplishments. He could choose the exact shade of silk for a drawing-room sofa cushion, and he had an excellent gift for the selection of wedding-presents. All in all, Marmaduke Trevor was a young gentleman of exquisite taste.

After breakfast on a certain July morning, Doggie, attired in a green shot-silk dressing-gown, entered his own particular room and sat down to think. In its way it was a very beautiful room--high, spacious, well-proportioned, facing southeast. The wall-paper, which Doggie had designed himself, was ivory white, with trimmings of peacock blue. [v]Vellum-bound books filled the cases; delicate water-colors adorned the walls. On his writing-table lay an ivory set: inkstand, pen-tray, blotter, and calendar. Bits of old embroidery, harmonizing with the peacock shades, were spread here and there. A spinet inlaid with ivory formed the center for the arrangement of other musical instruments--a viol, mandolins, and flutes. One tall, closed cabinet was devoted to Doggie's collection of wall-papers. Another held a collection of little dogs in china and porcelain--thousands of them; he got them from dealers from all over the world.

An unwonted frown creased Doggie's brow, for several problems disturbed him. The morning sun disclosed, beyond doubt, discolorations, stains, and streaks on the wall-paper. It would have to be renewed.

Then, his thoughts ran on to his cousin, Oliver Manningtree, who had just returned from the South Sea. It was Oliver, the strong and masculine, who had given him the name of Doggie years before, to his infinite disgust. And now every one in Durdlebury seemed to have gone crazy over the fellow. Doggie's uncle and aunt had hung on his lips while Oliver had boasted unblushingly of his adventures. Even the fair cousin Peggy, with whom Doggie was mildly in love, had listened open-eyed and open-mouthed to Oliver's tales of shipwreck in distant seas.

Doggie had reached this point in his reflections when, to his horror, he heard a familiar voice outside the door.

"All right," it said. "Don't worry, Peddle. I'll show myself in."

The door burst open, and Oliver, pipe in mouth and hat on one side, came into the room.

"Hello, Doggie!" he cried boisterously. "Thought I'd look you up. Hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all," said Doggie. "Do sit down."

But Oliver walked about and looked at things.

"I like your water colors," he said. "Did you collect them yourself!"

"Yes."

"I congratulate you on your taste. This is a beauty."

The appreciation brought Doggie at once to his side. He took Oliver delightedly around the pictures, expounding their merits and their little histories. Doggie was just beginning to like the big fellow, when, stopping before the collection of china dogs, the latter spoiled everything.

"My dear Doggie," he said, "is that your family?"

"It's the finest collection of the kind in the world," replied Doggie stiffly, "and is worth several thousand pounds."

Oliver heaved himself into a chair--that was Doggie's impression of his method of sitting down.

"Forgive me, Doggie," he said, "but you're so funny. Pictures and music I can understand. But what on earth is the point of these little dogs?"

Doggie was hurt. "It would be useless to try to explain," he said, with dignity. "And my name is Marmaduke."

Oliver took off his hat and sent it skimming to the couch.

"Look here, old chap," he said, "I seem to have put my foot in it. I didn't mean to, really. I'll call you Marmaduke, if you like, instead of Doggie--though it's a beast of a name. I'm a rough sort of chap. I've had ten years' pretty tough training. I've slept on boards; I've slept in the open without a cent to hire a board. I've gone cold and I've gone hungry, and men have knocked me about, and I've lost most of my politeness. In the wilds if a man once gets the name, say, of Duck-Eyed Joe, it sticks to him, and he accepts it, and answers to it, and signs it."

"But I'm not in the wilds," objected Marmaduke, "and haven't the slightest intention of ever leading the unnatural and frightful life you describe. So what you say doesn't apply to me."

Oliver, laughing, clapped him on the shoulder.

"You don't give a fellow a chance," he said. "Look here, tell me, as man to man, what are you going to do with your life? Here you are, young, strong, educated, intelligent--"

"I'm not strong," said Doggie.

"A month's exercise would make you as strong as a mule," returned Oliver. "Here you are--what are you going to do with yourself?"

"I don't admit that you have any right to question me," said Doggie.

"Peggy and I had a talk," declared Oliver. "I said I'd take you out with me to the Islands and give you a taste for fresh air and salt water and exercise. I'll teach you how to sail a schooner and how to go about barefoot and swab decks."

Doggie smiled pityingly, but said politely, "Your offer is kind, Oliver, but I don't think that sort of life would suit me."

Being a man of intelligence, he realized that Oliver's offer arose from a genuine desire to do him service. But if a friendly bull out of the fulness of its affection invited you to accompany it to the meadow and eat grass, what could you do but courteously decline the invitation?

"I'm really most obliged to you, Oliver," said Doggie, finally. "But our ideas are entirely different. You're primitive, you know. You seem to find your happiness in defying the elements, whereas I find mine in adopting the resources of civilization to defeat them."

"Which means," said Oliver, rudely, "that you're afraid to roughen your hands and spoil your complexion."

"If you like to put it that way."

"You're an [v]effeminate little creature!" cried Oliver, losing his temper. "And I'm through with you. Go sit up and beg for biscuits."

"Stop!" shouted Doggie, white with sudden anger, which shook him from head to foot. He marched to the door, his green silk dressing-gown flapping about him, and threw it wide open.

"This is my house," he said. "I'm sorry to have to ask you to get out of it."

And when the door was shut on Oliver, he threw himself, shaken, on the couch, hating Oliver and all his works more than ever. Go about barefoot and swab decks! It was madness. Besides being dangerous to health, it would be excruciating discomfort. And to be insulted for not grasping at such martyrdom! It was intolerable; and Doggie remained justly indignant the whole day long.

II