The Light Which Failed By M. Hamilton ID SPENCER DIXON, treasurer of judge. slowly turned and faced them. Dthe Second American Bank, really take the missing $500,000 bonds? That was the question, now in the hands of the jury, which puzzled everyone connected with the case. Dixon's lawyer had already broken down the testimony of one witness, known throughout the town as a worthless loafer, who had sworn that he saw Spencer actually take a package of the bonds from the bank late one night. Jerry Ginner, the town ne'er-do-well, had seen all this by the light of the moon, he had declared in court. It was then that Spencer's lawyer had pulled out a pocket almanac and proved that the moon was not shining on the night that the deed was supposed to have been done. But then, the bonds were missing, and the unfortunate cashier was held responsible, whether the moon was shining brightly or not at all. The jury was about to be brought in to announce their decision; the judge, head bowed, was lost in thought. A little buzz among the audience in the rear of the court room was scarcely audible. The defendant himself, pale and motionless, was suddenly startled to hear the announcement that the jury had reached a verdict. In a few minutes he would either be released or doomed to a living death behind prison bars. It had been a long and hard-fought case, although Spencer himself knew that he was innocent of the crime. The evidence was so strong that the best his lawyer Icould do was to secure one stay after another, and then the retrial which was now concluded. The bank and the prosecuting attorney had decided to make an example of Spencer. Opening slowly, the door from the jury room was the center of all attention. Judge and prisoner arose as if by common impulse. Filing in, the sombre-faced jury lined up facing the judge, coming to attention as if before an officer. The "Has this jury during the appointed time arrived at a common decision?" "It has," replied the foreman. "What is the verdict?" "Guilty," was the answer in ghastly tones. Breaking the intense silence following announcement of the verdict, attendants quickly opened the doors and busied themselves in seeing that the spectators dispersed in an orderly manner. From the front row of seats a large, healthy man elbowed his way through the people, stepping to the prisoner's seat. It was James Wallace, Dixon's lawyer. "Too bad, old man, I'm-" "Oh, that's all right," the prisoner "I expected that; we were fighting against broke in cheerily, extending a limp hand. heavy odds." we "Of course," the other agreed; "but listen, there's still another change. If I can put in a successful plea, we can get another hearing, and in that case stand a good show. No sane jury would ever give a second verdict like that on the new evidence that was presented here." Once more hope showed in the doomed cashier's face; his listless air somewhat disappeared. "That's fine," he said, "but when will you do this, Jim?" "I am acquainted with Judge Milton, and can obtain an audience with him at his house between seven and eight tonight." "But the suspense will be awful," answered Dixon, his eyes flashing as if by fire. "How can I know whether you succeed or not? I am cut off from all communication in my cell, as no messages may be received or delivered. Now that I have still another chance, all the old anxiety will return. Can't it be fixed to let me know? Isn't there some way?" "Let me think," returned the lawyer, then noticing the jailer approaching with the evident intention of taking the prisoner back to the cell that he had occupied "before the retrial, he continued in a low voice, "Your room has a window looking out on Court street, hasn't it? Good! "Watch the doorway of the old building opposite, between eight and nine tonight. A white light means success, a red onewell, you know." For the man in cell 35 in the upper tier the time dragged unmercifully. A strange mixture of feelings stirred him. He hoped, yet feared, the crucial hour would never come. "Freedom or imprisonment." "Life or death." Yes, that was it, "life or death." Over and over he muttered the last phrase, keeping time by rapping his knuckles on the wall-"life or death." From the stillness of the evening, chimes began to toll the hour of eight. He caught his breath. At the last stroke he turned and peered out the window of his cell. He could see nothing through the iron bars. It would only be a few minutes more, he told himself, then he would know his fate. For the months that his trials had dragged, he had been shaken first by fear, then encouraged by turns. He had striven hard all through life, then this last misfortune, being accused of a crime he had not committed. With bitter smiles he reflected incidents throughout his whole life. He was glad he had no family. At least if he lost this case no one would be left to suffer. In case he lost? The thought made him feel weak. If he could only stop thinking for one brief instant, what a relief it would be. Eight-fifteen, the chimes rang out again. With a leap he sprang to the window, breathing heavily, shaking from head to foot. One look at the window would tell him all. He closed his eyes, then peered out. Red! A red light shone through the darkness, staring at him like a living thing. Could it be true, or was he dreaming? He closed his eyes, and looked again. With a little cry he staggered backward, recovered himself, then stepped over to his bunk. From beneath the mattress he took a little bottle and held it in his hand, turning it over absent-mindedly. Sound of voices and footsteps came from the corridor. He listened intently. The sounds came nearer. There could be no mistake now-they were coming for him. Coming to put him away behind gray prison walls. Deliberately he took the stopper from the bottle. Once more he listened. They were nearly at the last corner of the alleyway. Shifting the bottle from left to right, he tipped back his head and drank the contents at a gulp. The steps approached and stopped at the door of cell 35. The lock was turned by someone from the outside. Lawyer Wallace and the jailer entered. On the floor, face downward, lay the prostrate form of what had been Spencer Dixon, found guilty of embezzlement. Kneeling, Wallace turned the body over. "He's gone," said the jailer, briefly. "Yes, he's gone," replied the other, half dazed. "But I don't understand; I don't see " Anxiously, Wallace stepped to the window. Sure enough, there was a red light. That accounted for it. But how could there be a red light there? With his own hands he had placed a bright white lantern in the doorway at the appointed time, announcing the judge's decision to grant a new trial. Even as he looked, a taxicab in the street outside began to move away, probably with some belated court clerk. And with the cab moved the light. In its place a pure white light came into view and shone brightly across the now unobstructed space. Jacob Sahib Original of a Celebrated Figure in Fiction. By Albert L. Jones HERE died, recently, at Bombay, a ability to carry out most achievements on T little, bent, poverty-stricken old which he set his heart. man of seventy-one, who in his prime, and under the name of "Jacob of Simla," supplied the inspiration for Marion Crawford's "Mr. Isaacs," and is believed to have furnished the main idea of "Lurgan Sahib" in Mr. Kipling's "Kim." For years this pathetic figure had moved about Bombay in colored glasses, carrying with him not the faintest suggestion of the glory that was his when Viceroys, visiting members of the Royal Family, and all the leaders of the various. Services in India frequented his famous Simla rooms. As described by Mr. Marion Crawford, "Jacob of Simla" was of Persian birth, but he had been carried away at an early age to Constantinople by slave dealers. There he was sold to a wealthy Turk, who increased his proficiency in Arabic and Persian. Ultimately he escaped from Constantinople with a caravan party traveling eastward to Mecca. There he performed the pilgrimage, and finally reached Bombay. Although in a penniless condition, the present of a few rupees from a young civilian provided the nucleus of a fortune with which he performed some useful deals in precious stones and articles de vertu. His success enabled him ultimately to start as an antiquary, first in Delhi and later in Simla. At Simla his faultless taste, particularly in Oriental china, his refinement of manner, his charm of gesture and speech, and his extraordinary facility in English no less than in Oriental languages, combined to give him a position such as probably no other "dealer" has occupied before or since. By shikaris amazing achievements were attributed to “Jacob,' who was also credited with a capacity for brilliant political intrigue, skill in versification, a fine seat on a horse, and the Of Jacob's "infinitely supple, swiftlymoving figure" Mr. Crawford wrote that it was "but the pedestal, as it were, for the noble face and nobler brain to which it owed its life and majestic bearing." The long oval face was of a "wondrously transparent olive tint, while a prominent brow and arched, but delicate, eyebrows fitly surmounted a nose smoothly aquiline, but with the broad, well-set nostrils that bespeak active courage." Of Jacob's rooms Mr. Crawford saidand Mr. Kipling's description of Lurgan Sahib's collection bore him out-that: "Every available space, nook and cranny were filled with gold and jewelled ornaments, string weapons, or uncouth but resplendent idols. There were sabres in scabbards set from end to end with diamonds and sapphires, with cross hilts of rubies in massive gold mounting, the spoil of some worsted Rajah or Nawab of the Mutiny. There were narghyles four feet high, crusted with gems and Herat; water flasks of gold and drinking curiously-wrought work from Bagdad or cups of jade; yataghans from Roum and idols from the Far East. Gorgeous lamps of the octagonal Oriental shape hung from the ceiling, and, fed by aromatic oils, shed their soothing light on all round. The floor was covered with a rich soft pile, and low divans were heaped with cushions of deep-tinted silk and gold." Of all this wealth and reputation, which was at its height, possibly, shortly after King Edward's visit to India, there remained nothing but the little, wizened old man who for a decade or two had lived from hand to mouth in Bombay. And now even he, too, is gone. A long and unsuccessful law-suit undertaken in Hyderabad was the beginning of his undoing, and no young collector was found to give "Jacob Sahib" a second start. The Furnace of Death I. A Display of Bravery Where Least Expected. By Russell Arden Bankson ROM Seattle to Chi' he was-and Fmay be yet, for all I can positively say-known familiarly as "Duke." There wasn't anything especially interesting in his history. As employment superintendent for the Hammond-Mercer Timber Corporation, I bump into the same sordid story many times a day. When you got to hire an average of one hundred men a day, you can't be too stuckupish, so when he staggered up to my desk in my Spokane office late one afternoon, looking for a job in the woods, I stopped filing cards in my index card case long enough to glare at him and give him a growl. I ain't usually that gruff, even with the scum that clutters up every employment office most of the time, but I'd faced about two hundred of his ilk that day and I was tired and disgusted. As he came forward, eyes averted, I studied him, like I do all of 'em. Main reason why I got this job of mine, pulling down five thousand a year, is because I have an instinct that tells me when a man's the sort I want to send up to the woods or the mills. During the whole time the Wobblies had the lumber industry of the Northwest terrorized, there weren't any soap-box reds spouting around the Hammond-Mercer crews, if I do say it myself. Well, I sized up Bum Duke and booked him for what he was. "Job in the woods!" I taunted back to his mumbled request. "Say, what y' think we're running? A hospital? We ain't sendin' dope fiends up to our camps for the cure. Not today, thanks!" You have to talk the language of those birds when you're dealing with them, and I knew I had the right ticket for this one. I can spot a hop-head as far as I can see him. And this here feller was just getting past the zenith of a big "shot"-to that point where his God-a-mighty, exalted feeling was giving away to ragged nerves. I smelled moonshine on his breath, too. Squared his shoulders, doubled his fists He started to pull the indignation stuff. and opened his mouth. The shot of hop in him was too far spent, though. He crumpled up wilted into a chair and rested his head in his arms on my desk. "For God's sake, can't some one help me, when I can't help myself," he whined. "I'm a gonner-down to the bottom." I watched his trembling hand, flung out across my desk. "What do you do for a living, besides eat dope and moonshine?" I asked him. "Just bum around. Ride the blind baggage from place to place, stealing and begging enough to get the the stuff with." Another reason why I hold my job down is because I haven't any soul. Board of directors made it plain I couldn't stick around and show weaknesses like that, when they voted me in. "I knowed that, too," I said, gruffer than ever. "What's your name?" "Duke," he answered, not even raising his head. "Just call me Duke. That's what they all call me on the road." "Duke!" I snorted. "Bum, you mean Bum Duke, that's it." I was trying tc get under his hide good and hard. Looking him over more closely, though, I saw he did have something about his make-up -sort of an air, like he'd known better days. His clothes were about the last thing in rags, but they were all brushed clean. And his face, haggard and drawn and sallow, from the dope and booze, so his own mother wouldn't have known him, was clean shaven, anyway. Those were two mighty good points in his favor. He leaned back in his chair, gazing past me, dull eyed. There was something kinda pathetic in that gaze. "Well," I decided, finally, looking him steadily in the eyes, "I have a place right now for a guy. How would you like to be a pack-horse for some swells from the East?" "I don't care what I do, just so's I bury myself in the woods." "This bunch owns most of the private timber in north Idaho, and is going to spend two weeks tramping through it. Be here tomorrow morning at five o'clock, and-" (I looked sharp at him) "and be in condition for a hard day." Bum Duke brightened up considerable. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I'll be here-in condition." II. Before I became employment superintendent, I was a woods foreman for the Hammond-Mercer outfit, and I know every foot of the Coeur d'Alenes. That's why old Josephius Hammond picked me out to organize and command that tramping expedition, which set out the next morning, and which consisted of Mr. Hammond, two of his cronnies, myself and four packers. I didn't mind leaving my desk for a bit, either, for it was like getting back home, to smell the spruce and cedar and pine all about me, and hear the old woods whispering to me at night. But I had lots of work to do, too. That pack crew I picked was a bunch of rummies. Didn't know the first thing about the woods and laid down on the work. too. That is, all except that there Bum Duke. He was the worst wreck of the bunch, but I'll say he stuck to it. He was mostly living on his dope, but time after time I watched him when we were on the trail, and he kept up with the procession when every step must have been a little hell all its own. And he never complained. Where the other three packers were grumbling all the time, he kept his mouth shut. "Why don't you growl a little?" I asked him on the fourth evening out, when we were up in the heart of the Coeur d' Alenes. "You make me think you're sick." "I am," he answered, and would have stopped the conversation there. "Cut out the dope," I warned. Fifth day we come up near the head of the Clearwater. Wilder country I was never in. Mountains piled right square on end and big timber standing in so close there were whole forests of it we had to detour around to make any progress. I was a little uneasy about it, too. It was late July, and the whole woods were as dry as tinder. One match would have done a million dollars worth of damage there in a day. And if the fire ever came down on us it had us trapped, too, with no trails and no open country to get into. For that reason I was extra careful about all fires we built and about smoking while we were on the march. On that fifth evening old Josephius Hammond came to me. "Dan," he says, "I don't like the looks of things. The smoke is getting pretty heavy." "Several big fires over in the Clearwater National Forest," I assured him, to ease down his fears. I didn't feel easy myself, any, though. I knew there was a big fire a whole lot closer to us than that. I can tell by the smell of it just how far away a fire is. "Better have the whole outfit-packers and all-bunch in close tonight," he suggested.. "We can clear out a little space for a fire, then prohibit the use of matches anywhere except in the cleared space." That was a pretty good idea, so that night the whole bunch of us, eight in all, laid in close about the little fire we nursed along. Bum Duke stretched out on the ground with the others, only back out of the light. He was silent, and I saw right away he was all doped up. "Great cripes, Bum," I urged, sitting down beside him, "why don't you cut the old stuff. I don't want you croaking on us up here in the hills." "Wish I could," he answered, after a bit. "If-if I have such good luck, just throw me in the brush, somewhere. I'd rather be forgotten just that way." "Oh, cheer up," I growled, moving over into the firelight. We were all nervous and restless, what with the pine smoke settling thick and hot "I meant to taper down on this trip," all around us like a smothering blanket. he groaned wearily. "I can't." Everyone was getting into the dumps, so |