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Eloquent Gestures
Eloquent Gestures
The Transformation of
Performance Style in the Griffith
Biograph Films

Roberta E. Pearson

University of California Press

Berkeley / Los Angeles / Oxford
Photos on page 81 courtesy of the Museum of Modern
Art Film Stills Archive, New York.

University of California Press

Berkeley and Los Angeles
University of California Press, Ltd.
Oxford, England

© 1992 by

The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Pearson, Roberta E.
Eloquent gestures : the transformation of performance
style in the Griffith Biograph films / Roberta E. Pearson
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-520-07365-7 (cloth).—ISBN 0-520-07366-5
(pbk.)
1. Silent films—United States—History. 2. Motion
picture acting. 3. Movement (Acting). 4. Griffith,
D. W. (David Wark), 1875-1948—Criticism and
interpretation. 5. Biograph Company. I. Title.
PN1995.75.P43 1992
791.43'0973—dc20 91-30658
CIP
Printed in the United States of America

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum
requirements of American National Standard for
Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for
Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984. ©
Kathy: Movies are entertaining enough for the masses,
but the personalities on the screen just don't impress
me. I mean, they don't talk—they . . . don't act—they
just make a lot of dumb show.
Don: You mean I'm not an actor—pantomime on the
screen isn't acting?
Kathy: Well, of course not. Acting means great parts,
wonderful lines—speaking those glorious words. Oh,
you can laugh if you want to, but at least the stage is a
dignified profession.
Don: Dignified!
Kathy: And what have you got to be so conceited about?
You're nothing but a shadow on film—a shadow—
you're not flesh and blood.
Singin' in the Rain
 Contents

Acknowledgments ix

1 Introduction 1

2 The Theatrical Heritage 18

3 The Histrionic and Verisimilar Codes in the

Biograph Films 38

4 Performance Style and the Interaction of

Signifying Practices 52

5 D. W. Griffith and the Biograph Company 75

6 Henry B. Walthall 99

7 Trade Press Discourse 120

8 Conclusion 140

Notes 147
Bibliography 171
Index 177

vii
 Acknowledgments

Many people have offered various kinds of assistance in the process of a

project that has gone from dissertation proposal to book. Perhaps pride of
place should go to William Simon, who emerged from his office one day say-
ing, " W h y don't you write a dissertation on silent film acting?" Robert Sklar,
my dissertation advisor, and Robert Stam, the other member of my core com-
mittee, helped bring the idea to fruition, contributing their own perspectives
along the way. Jay Leyda and Brooks McNamara also served on the commit-
tee. Ann Harris and the rest of the staff of the Film Study Center at New York
University's Department of Cinema Studies always had stacks of Biographs
ready for viewing and kept the Steenbecks running. New York University's
Graduate School of Arts and Sciences provided a Dean's Dissertation Fellow-
ship that gave me nine months of writing time. Carol Zucker and Vivian Sob-
chack both published early versions of chapters: ' 'The Modesty of Nature: A
Semiotic Approach to Acting in the Griffith Biographs," in Carol Zucker, ed.,
Making Visible the Invisible: An Anthology of Original Essays on Film Acting
(Metuchen, N.J.: Scarecrow Press, 1990), and "Cultivated Folks and the Bet-
ter Classes: Class Conflict and Representation in Early American Film," Jour-
nal of Popular Film and Television 15:3 (Fall 1987): 120-28. David Paletz
harassed me both about finishing the dissertation and revising the manuscript
for publication, and, in retrospect, I thank him. Ernest Callenbach read the
manuscript in dissertation form, told me how to turn it into a book, and has
been a wonderfully encouraging editor. Pamela MacFarland Holway and Ellen
Stein provided painstaking copyediting leavened with intelligence and humor.
During the revision process, Charles Musser shared many prepublication
versions of his various books and articles with me, as well as some excellent

ix
x Acknowledgments

advice. Richard deCordova kindly gave me a copy of his dissertation. Tom

Gunning read the manuscript at two crucial stages, offering insightful criti-
cisms and suggestions, many of which I have incorporated. James Naremore
provided a very helpful reading of the first draft of the book. William Uricchio
gave me moral support throughout the sometimes trying manuscript review
process and made suggestions about the form of the conclusion when I was
heartily tired of the whole project. Chapter 7 reflects our discussions about
two forthcoming coauthored works, Cultural Crisis, Cultural Cure? The Case
of the Vitagraph ' 'High-Art'' Moving Pictures (Princeton University Press)
and ' 'The Nickel Madness'': The Struggle Over New York City's Nickelodeons
(Smithsonian Institution Press). David Black saved countless hours of my time
by marking films for frame enlargements, and Cathy Holter produced legible
images from much-used 16mm prints. My cats, Henry and Keaton, together
with the Duke University basketball team, provided much-needed distraction.
And now for the usual disclaimers: I apologize to anyone I have omitted from
the above list. And none of the above bears any responsibility for errors, in-
correct interpretations, or anything else that reviewers may criticize.
 1

Introduction

Amuse yourself with a little armchair time travel. Your companion is an

imaginary New York City lawyer by the name of Josiah Evans, a man with a
civic conscience who belongs to several progressive reform organizations. It's
an unusually hot evening in the spring of 1909, Josiah's wife Lydia has taken
the children to visit her parents in Connecticut, and he has taken to the Man-
hattan streets, seeking fresh air and distractions. Barely paying attention to his
progress, he wanders down Broadway, past the expensive ladies' stores, and
eventually finds himself on the Bowery in front of the Electric Theatre, a store-
front picture show festooned with luridly colored posters.
Josiah has seen moving pictures, though not recently. A few years ago,
before his marriage, he had occasionally visited Koster and Bial's Music Hall
in search of light amusement. He was even there on that memorable night in
April 1896, when Edison's marvelous Vitascope premiered. But in the last
few years these new "nickelodeons" have been springing up like mushrooms
on every street corner. Although Josiah has not paid a great deal of attention
to the rapid growth of this new industry, he is aware that some of his friends,
who belong to organizations such as the People's Institute and the Women's
Municipal League, are quite concerned about the effect of moving pictures on
the susceptible immigrants and workers. They argue constantly about whether
this form of entertainment should be dismissed as a "cheap amusement" like
the dance hall and the penny arcade or embraced as something with real po-
tential for social or moral uplift. At the end of last year, Mayor George B.
McClellan, Jr., persuaded of the deleterious nature of the moving pictures,
caused considerable controversy by revoking the licenses of more than five
hundred of these storefront theatres.

1
2 Introduction

Well, why not see what all the fuss is about? Giving in to the impulse,
Josiah hands his nickel to the woman in the box office and walks in. He pauses
to permit his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and immediately begins to
understand why some of his stuffier acquaintances talk about the nickelodeon
as a blight on the landscape. More than two hundred people, men, w o m e n ,
and children, Italians, Chinese, and Russian Jews, are crammed elbow to el-
bow in a small, badly ventilated, darkened room, illuminated only by the flick-
ering pictures projected at the front. What a ripe breeding ground for physical
and moral contagion!
The picture ends, the lights come up, and Josiah finds a seat in the back, as
close as he can get to the exit. When he has settled himself as comfortably as
possible on his hard wooden chair, a young woman steps in front of the screen
and warbles a sentimental ballad accompanied by a series of crudely colored,
vulgar, magic-lantern slides not at all like the exquisitely rendered fairy-tale
slides that his children enjoy at home. A Western—taken, he warrants, just
west of the Hudson—and a comic chase follow the song. All fail to impress
him. The picture flickers, the actors move first like frenzied puppets and then
like drugged, underwater swimmers, and a torrential downpour of scratches
obscures every scene. The pianist thumps her badly tuned instrument with
total disregard for the story, playing a lively rag for a tragic leave-taking and
a funeral march during the chase.
After a pause, there appears on the screen an engraved image of an eagle
perched over the words "American Mutual and Biograph C o m p a n y . " The
audience is watching A Drunkard's Reformation, the tale of a young husband
and father who has fallen prey to the evils of drink. Coming home intoxicated,
he smashes crockery, yells at his innocent young daughter, and speaks harshly
to his pretty wife until she persuades him to accompany the child to the theatre.
There, the father sees a temperance melodrama and, ashamed, renounces his
wicked ways. The film ends happily with the little family sitting serenely by
the hearth in the glow of the fire.
Josiah enjoys the moving picture because the players remind him of the
blood-and-thunder stage melodramas (some just like the play that the young
father sees in the film) that he used to sneak in to see as a kid. The acting of
the young wife as she depicts her misery and desperation particularly affects
him. She collapses into her chair and rests her head on her arms, which are
extended straight out in front of her on the table. Then, in an agony of despair,
she sinks to her knees and prays, her arms fully extended upward at about a
forty-five degree angle. In those cheap melodramas he had so enjoyed as a
youth, he saw many an actress appeal to heaven in just such a manner. Emerg-
ing into the twilight, Josiah thought that, though he had benefited from his
experience by gaining a fuller understanding of the problem of the nickel-
odeon, he was not likely to contract the "moving picture habit."
The years pass. One evening, shortly before the Christmas of 1912, Josiah
 Introduction 3

A Drunkard's Reformation: The despairing wife.

finishes work a little earlier than usual and decides to pay a visit to the nick-
elodeon—it will be a welcome relief from the preholiday uproar at home.
Since 1909, the moving pictures have become a familiar part of his life,
though he still hasn't actually seen very many of them. Lydia has become
involved in the activities of the National Board of Censorship, the group of
private citizens sponsored by the People's Institute who pass on the suitability
of new moving picture shows. She spends a couple of afternoons a month
watching moving pictures with the review board and even subscribes to jour-
nals such as The Moving Picture World, The New York Dramatic Mirror, and
the new Motion Picture Story Magazine. She says she needs to keep herself
informed about the industry, but Josiah suspects she reads these magazines for
pleasure as well. And he himself has stolen the occasional peek.
He goes to the Rialto Theatre on 14th Street, which just recently changed
its programming from vaudeville to moving pictures and is conveniently near
his Fifth Avenue office. The Rialto is certainly very different from the
crowded, smelly, storefront theatre he went to a few years earlier. He buys his
ticket, and a uniformed attendant ushers him to his plushly upholstered seat.
Looking around, he sees that the clientele has also changed. Although there
are still a number of patrons who seem to be recent immigrants and/or working
people, women and children of his own class, who seem to be taking a break
from their Christmas shopping, form a significant part of the audience.
The lights dim, though the room is not nearly as dark as the nickelodeon
had been, and the program begins. To Josiah's delight, the Biograph Compa-
ny's eagle again appears on the screen, heralding what will undoubtedly be an
enjoyable picture, for Lydia and many of her friends believe that this compa-
ny's films are among the finest made by the American manufacturers. As Jo-
siah watches this Biograph, titled Brutality, he notices similarities between it
and the moving picture he had seen on his memorable trip to the Bowery. This
time, a decent young man takes to drink after marrying his sweetheart, and
4 Introduction

Brutality: The despairing wife.

their idyllic home life quickly deteriorates. Finally, in a reprise of A Drunk-

ard's Reformation, the couple attends a vaudeville show that features a tem-
perance melodrama, and the husband swears off liquor.
But this moving picture does not remind him of the blood-and-thunder
melodramas of his youth. The acting is the equal of Mr. Gillette's in Sherlock
Holmes or even of that in the Belasco play he and Lydia had attended last
night. Particularly impressive is the young wife's despairing reaction to her
husband's harsh treatment and abandonment. After he leaves for the saloon,
the wife walks back to the dining-room table covered with the debris of their
evening meal. She sits down, bows her head, and begins to collect the dishes.
She looks up, compresses her lips, pauses, then begins to gather the dishes
once again. Once more she pauses, raises her hand to her mouth, glances
down to her side, and slumps a little in her chair. Slumping a little more, she
begins to cry. How differently this actress portrays her grief from her counter-
part in A Drunkard's Reformation. A lot has changed in those three-and-a-half
years since his first visit to a nickelodeon.1

The Purpose of the Book

Our imaginary companion, though acquainted with the cinema primarily
vicariously, nonetheless was astute enough to note the striking differences in
the portrayals of despair by the wives in A Drunkard's Reformation (Biograph,
1909) and Brutality (Biograph, 1912). The years between the appearances of
these two films saw a major transformation in cinematic acting. Not just at
Biograph but at every American studio, actors moved from a performance
style heavily influenced by theatrical melodrama to a style allied to "realist"
movements in literature and the theatre.
To avoid confusion, I should at the outset indicate precisely how I shall use
the term performance.2 I wish to adopt the excellent definition offered by
Richard Dyer:
Other documents randomly have
different content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sinclair's luck
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
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eBook.

Title: Sinclair's luck

A story of adventure in East Africa

Author: Percy F. Westerman

Release date: January 10, 2024 [eBook #72673]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: S.W. Partridge & Co, 1923

Credits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen, thank you Ru!

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SINCLAIR'S LUCK

***
 [Illustration: cover art]

SINCLAIR'S LUCK

BOYS' EMPIRE LIBRARY

TITLES UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

The Blue Ridge Patrol

Rowland Walker

"School! School!"
Sydney Horler

Shandy of Ringmere School

Rowland Walker

The Fifth Form Detective

Rowland Walker

"Pickles" of the Lower Fifth

Rowland Walker

Trapped in Tripoli!
Tom Bevan
Sinclair's Luck!
Percy F. Westerman

Jack Rollock's Adventures

Hugh St. Leger

Cap'n Nat's Treasure

Robert Leighton

The Secret Men

Tom Bevan

The Adventures of Don Lavington

George Manville Fenn

The Terror of the Tin Mine

George Manville Fenn

S. W. PARTRIDGE & Co.

4, 5 & 6 Soho Square, London, W.1
{Illustration: "SUDDENLY DESMOND FELL WITH A LOUD THUD"
[p.241}

SINCLAIR'S LUCK

A STORY OF ADVENTURE IN
EAST AFRICA

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

AUTHOR OF
"BILLY BARCROFT, OF THE R.N.A.S."
"THE DREADNOUGHT OF THE AIR,"
"THE RIVAL SUBMARINES," ETC., ETC.
 {Illustration: logo}

S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.

4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1

Readers of the adventures in East Africa

of the two heroes, Colin Sinclair and Tiny
Desmond, as narrated in the pages of
this book, will be greatly interested in
their school life, before leaving for the
Dark Continent, which is splendidly told
in the story entitled "The Mystery of
Stockmere School."

MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN

First published 1923
Frequently reprinted
 Contents

CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE TWO CHUMS 9
II. "MEETING THE CASE" 18
III. FAREWELL 25
IV. "REGARDLESS OF THE RISK" 30
V. IN THE DITCH—AND OUT 41
VI. VAN DER WYCK'S GIFT 49
VII. DETAINED AT CAPE TOWN 54
VIII. HELD UP 59
IX. ROBBERY UNDER ARMS 66
X. THE MOUNTAIN TRACK 71
XI. AT THE EDGE OF THE CHASM 80
XII. BESET BY LIONS 86
XIII. THE MORNING AFTER 94
XIV. BY VIRTUE OF THE TALISMAN 99
XV. AT KILEMBONGA 106
XVI. SIBENGA'S ENVOYS 112
XVII. THE PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS 121
XVIII. THE AMBUSH 130
XIX. HOTLY PURSUED 138
XX. NIPPED IN THE BUD 144[
XXI. THE OTHER VAN DER WYCK 153
XXII. PALAVER 160
XXIII. THE BULL ELEPHANT 167
XXIV. A LUCKY SHOT 175
XXV. MISSING 182
XXVI. A DOUBTFUL CLUE 188
XXVII. THE RAVING OF THE WITCH-DOCTOR 195
 XXVIII. KIDNAPPED 206
XXIX. IN THE HANDS OF THE MAKOH'LENGA 212
XXX. TO WHAT END 221
XXXI. THE GOLDEN IMAGE 229
XXXII. AT THE FATAL MOMENT 238
XXXIII. WHERE THE GOLD WENT 244
XXXIV. EXPLANATIONS AND SURPRISES 248

Illustrations
Facing
page
"SUDDENLY DESMOND FELL WITH A LOUD Frontispiece
THUD"
"HE FIRED TWO SHOTS IN QUICK 42
SUCCESSION"
"HIS FOOT CAUGHT IN THE TRAILING 174
TENDRIL AND HE CRASHED HEAVILY"
"WE'VE DONE IT, BY JOVE!'" 230

SINCLAIR'S LUCK
 CHAPTER I
THE TWO CHUMS

"My last term, Tiny, old son," announced Sinclair dismally.

"What? Never!" replied "Tiny" Desmond, who, at the age of sixteen

years and three months, had attained the height of six feet one inch.
"Your last term at Stockmere? You're trying to pull my leg."

"Wish I were," rejoined Colin. "But it's a fact. My governor wrote to

Dr. Narfield a week ago."

"Why?" inquired Desmond, linking arms with his sturdy, athletically-

built chum. "Tell me all about it. Chuck it off your chest."

It was the first day of the summer term. Stockmere was in a state
of commotion that is usually associated with the commencement of
a new session. There were boys promoted to higher forms, boys
remaining in a state of "as you were," new boys wandering about
aimlessly like strangers in a strange land, fearful the while lest by
word or deed they should transgress the moral and social side of
their new school-fellows. There were boys seeking old chums; boys
casting about for fresh ones. Housemasters and formmasters were
discussing boys; the Head and the Matron were doing likewise. In
short, the topic was "Boys."

"Let's get out of this crush," continued Tiny. "Lorrimer and Perkins
are cackling away in our study. You know what they are. I vote we
push off up on the moors. I'll ask Collier."
 The housemaster, recently placed in charge of the Upper Sixth,
gave the required permission.

"Very good, Desmond," he replied in answer to Tiny's request.

"Back at four, mind. How's that cough of yours, by the bye? Lost it
yet?"

"Nearly, sir," replied Tiny, flushing.

"H'm, about time," rejoined Mr. Collier. "All right, carry on."

The two sixth-formers touched their caps and walked away.

"Wish he wouldn't harp on that cough," murmured Desmond. "It's

really nothing much; a bit of a bother first thing in the morning.
Now, Colin, what's this stunt?"

Sinclair told his story simply and without hesitation. There were no
secrets between the two chums. They shared their pleasures, their,
for the most part trivial, troubles, their perplexities, and their worldly
goods (as far as their school belongings went) whole-heartedly.

"Fact is," said Colin, "my governor has been losing a lot of money
since the War, and he can't afford to keep me at Stockmere after this
term. I found out quite accidentally that the pater had been pretty
badly hit for some time. I ought to have left a year ago, only he kept
it dark and managed to let me stay on. He was hoping for things to
improve financially only they didn't. So that's that."

"Hard lines!" ejaculated Desmond sympathetically.

"That's why the governor didn't come up to the sports," resumed

Sinclair. "He simply couldn't run to it. And he's sold his car and cut
down a lot of things, but he's losing ground, so to speak. His
pension was quite all right once upon a time, but now it goes
nowhere."
 "And what are you going to do?" asked Tiny.

"I hardly know," replied his chum. "Of course, my idea of going to
an engineering college is off. After all's said and done, it means
earning nothing until a fellow's well over twenty-one, and then he's
lucky if he makes as much as a miner or a bricklayer. At any rate,
I've got to do something—to earn something. In fact, I don't think I
ought to have come back this term."

"Well, what are you going to do?" asked Desmond.

Colin shook his head.

"I hardly know," he replied. "Anything to help things along. I've got
thirteen weeks to think over it. By that time—but, I say, Tiny, you
won't say a word to any of the other fellows?" he added anxiously.

"'Course not," declared Desmond.

"Right-o!" rejoined Sinclair, then, as if he had put the matter out of

his mind, he drew himself up, stretched his arms, and sniffed
appreciatively at the keen, bracing mountain air.

"My word," he exclaimed, "isn't it tophole? I'll race you to the crest
of Shutter Pike."

It was a distance of about four hundred yards to the summit of the

hill known as Shutter Pike—a gentle gradient for two-thirds of the
way, ending up with a fairly stiff ascent.

For the first fifty yards Tiny led, but gradually Colin recovered the
initial advantage his companion had gained, and before the last fifty
yards he had drawn up level. Then, putting his whole energy into the
race, Sinclair dashed ahead and flung himself upon the grassy knoll
at the summit. To his surprise, Tiny had stopped and was holding his
hands against his ribs and coughing violently.
 "Buck up, man!" Sinclair shouted. "I'm a bit out of training .... Why,
what's the matter? Anything wrong?"

Desmond shook his head, but made no attempt to move. His

companion jumped to his feet and ran down the slope.

"Did you fall?" he asked anxiously, for the bluish-grey pallor on his
chum's face rather took him aback.

"No," spluttered Tiny. "Stitch, or something ... nothing much."

He sat down abruptly, endeavouring to stifle the fit of coughing. At

length he succeeded.

"You're not up to the mark, that's evident," said Colin. "What have
you been doing these hols? You're right out of condition. You'll have
to train, my festive."

"I will," replied Desmond. "I've been slacking a bit, but I'll soon get
into form. I say, it's close on four. Let's get a move on."

Hardly a word was exchanged as the pair made their way

schoolwards.

"Don't say anything to Collier," said Tiny, as they passed the lodge
gates. "About this little cough of mine, I mean."

"'Course not," declared Colin. "Why should I?"

Tea over, Desmond and Sinclair went to the rooms they shared with
Lorrimer and "Polly" Perkins. Here everything was in a state of
disorder. The furniture had only just been removed from their last
term's den; their boxes and trunks, half unpacked, were piled upon
the table and chairs, while an assortment of bats, tennis rackets,
fishing rods, nets, and other articles inseparable with schoolboys
filled every available corner of the room.
 "You're a nice pair!" exclaimed Lorrimer. "Mooching off and leaving
Polly and me to square things up."

"And a fine square up you've made of it," replied Tiny. "Hullo,

what's this? My razor! Polly, you are the absolute limit."

Perkins received the intelligence with as good grace as possible

when discovered in the act of using another fellow's razor for the
purpose of cutting rope.

"Sorry, old man," he replied apologetically. "But what do you do

with your razor, by the bye? Half a mo', Tiny, before you start
scrapping. The Head's been looking out for you."

"Honest?" inquired Desmond.

"Honest," assented Polly.

At Stockmere that word was sufficient. No fellow ever doubted the

genuineness of an assertion thus expressed. Desmond picked up his
cap and made his way to Dr. Narfield's study.

The summons did not surprise him. Coupled with the fact that he
was one of the head boys, and that this was the first day of a new
term, it was not unusual for a youth in Desmond's position to be
called to the Head's study.

Dr. Narfield was standing with his back to the empty fireplace in a
characteristic attitude, his mortar-board on the back of his head and
his hands clasped under the tails of his gown:

"You sent for me, sir?"

"Yes, Desmond," replied the Head, looking at the lad over the top
of his spectacles. "I thought, Desmond, that you, a head boy, would
be above a senseless practical joke."
 He paused. Tiny regarded the doctor dumfoundedly. And then that
irritating cough made itself known again.

Dr. Narfield waited until the fit was over.

"Perhaps, Desmond," he resumed, "you will kindly explain why this

was found in your handbag?"

He pointed to a large dish on a side table. On it, writhing gently,

was an eel, about ten inches in length.

"That—er—pet," continued the Head, "nearly frightened the

housekeeper into hysterics when she opened your bag. You are, of
course, aware that pets are permitted at Stockmere, but there are
limits in the choice of a selection. Now, Desmond, please explain."

Desmond hesitated. The affair wanted some explanation, but he

wasn't at all sure that his elucidation was a correct one.

"I can't exactly explain, sir," he replied. "I didn't put it into my bag,
and I certainly didn't intend to frighten Mrs. Symonds or anybody."

"Then how did it get into your bag?" asked the Head patiently.
Previous experiences had taught him the advisability of a patient
hearing and not to judge by circumstantial evidence. He knew
perfectly well the best way to detect a guilty culprit was to let him
tell his story without comment until he had made the fatal error of
condemning himself.

"It was like this, sir," explained Desmond. "The train was crowded,
and I rode in the guard's van. In the van, amongst other things, was
a large box labelled 'Eels—Perishable.' It had a small crack in it, and
very soon I saw an eel's tail appear. Then somehow other tails found
their way through and the box began to open."

Dr. Narfield nodded. He knew from personal experience that eels

have frequently been known to force open heavy boxes in which
they are packed for transit.

"Go on, Desmond," he said gravely. Tiny, finding that the Head did
not ridicule his tale, plunged into his narrative without further
hesitation.

"I told the guard," he continued, "but he was busy writing in a

book, and told me it wasn't his business. It wasn't mine, so I just
watched. And before we got to Little Porton the eels had forced
open the box and were wriggling all over the place—hundreds of
them, sir. The guard got the wind up then—I mean, sir, he was in a
bit of a funk. I didn't exactly care for it myself, although it was a
topping rag to watch. So we both sat on some luggage and kept our
feet up, although at every station the guard had to get out. And a
crowd of eels got out, too. There were dozens of them left on every
platform, and by the time we got to Colbury Monkton the van was
almost empty. I must have left my bag unfastened—in fact, I
remember closing it when I got out—so I suppose one of them
wriggled in."

The Head smiled.

"That explanation is quite satisfactory, Desmond," he remarked.

"You may go."

CHAPTER II
"MEETING THE CASE"

At dinner that evening, a rather informal meal, at which the Head

and the housemasters discuss the wholly absorbing topic of boys, Dr.
Narfield related his interview with Desmond.

"By the way," he continued, addressing Mr. Collier, who sat next to
him, "have you noticed anything peculiar about Desmond?"

"He hasn't seemed quite up to the mark for some time," replied Mr.
Collier. "A rather troublesome cough——"

"Precisely," interrupted the Head. "That was the fact to which I was
going to refer. He's a big fellow obviously outgrowing his strength. I
don't like that cough. It's strange his people didn't notice it. Some
parents never do. However, Collier, without frightening the lad, send
him over to the sanatorium to-morrow morning and get Dr.
Anderson to run over him. I believe I mentioned that Sinclair was
leaving this term?"

"Yes, indeed," replied the sixth form housemaster. "And I'm very
sorry to hear it. We'll miss him in the next inter-school sports."

Dr. Narfield sighed. Even years of experience of this sort of thing—

of promising pupils leaving just as they were doing sterling work for
the good and honour of the school—had not made him indifferent to
the continual changes that are inevitable.

"And just as he was showing promise of gaining his Matric," he

added gloomily. "Case of financial difficulties, I am informed. It's a
strange England nowadays, Collier. All ups and downs, and goodness
only knows what things are coming to. Yes, I'm sorry for Sinclair."

* * * * *

"Now hold your breath ... count ten ... say, 'Ah.'"

Dr. Anderson tapped Desmond with his stethoscope.

"Again .... Cough."

 Tiny Desmond tried to cough, but without success. That irritating
cough of his had a nasty habit of asserting itself at very inconvenient
times, but now, when the doctor wanted him to cough, he simply
couldn't.

"All right, Desmond. Get your clothes on. I'll make you up a little
medicine. For the present I must keep you here."

"In the sanny, doctor!" exclaimed the astonished Tiny. "Why, sir, is
there anything very much wrong with me?"

The doctor smiled.

"You want to go into dock for a slight overhaul and refit,

Desmond," he replied. "Nothing much, but if neglected, your cough
will develop into something serious. You've been maintaining a full
head of steam in a boiler with defective tubes. Those tubes haven't
blown out yet, but they might. You understand what I mean? Very
well, then. It's merely a matter of going slow, taking reasonable
precautions, and undergoing a sort of treatment, and we'll soon
have you fit again."

Tiny Desmond nodded gravely. He was not deceived by the kindly

doctor's words. What he imagined was wrong with him for some
time past—he had tried over and over again to treat it lightly—was
no illusion. It was lung trouble.

* * * * *

"I ran over young Desmond this morning, Dr. Narfield," reported Dr.
Anderson. "It's no use mincing matters, although I tried,
ineffectually, I fear, to bluff the lad. One lung is badly affected; the
other shows signs of pulmonary weakness. The best thing to be
done is to send that youngster abroad—to a warm, dry climate. It
will mean you losing a promising pupil, but that's an assured thing in
any case. If he does go abroad there's a thundering good chance
that he will make a complete recovery. If he doesn't—well——"
 Dr. Anderson turned his thumbs down. There was no mistaking the
significance of the act.

"I'll write to his parents at once," declared the Head. "I don't
suppose for one moment they have noticed Desmond's condition.
Parents rarely do; they trust implicitly to the school physician.
Fortunately, Anderson, we've found out in time, I trust. By the bye, it
might be a dispensation of Providence; how would East Africa suit
him?"

"Quite all right in the uplands of the interior," replied Dr. Anderson.
"The coast and the forest regions—no. Why do you ask?"

"Because not half an hour ago I received a letter from my brother

Herbert," explained the Head. "You know he left there to take up an
official appointment in Ceylon. His papers were cancelled for some
reason, and instead he was given a post as mining engineer at
Kilembonga, which is, I believe, about a hundred miles north-west of
Tabora. He asks if I know of a couple of Stockmere boys about to
leave school who would be willing to act as his assistants. Curiously
enough, he mentioned Desmond and Sinclair."

"The very thing!" ejaculated Dr. Anderson. "You were telling me

about young Sinclair—a hard case. I feel sorry for that lad."

The outcome of the conversation resulted in Colin Sinclair and Tiny

Desmond being called to the Head's study. Briefly Dr. Narfield
outlined his brother's request.

"It is a healthy life," he continued, "and there are excellent

prospects of qualifying for a well-paid profession. If you two fellows
would like to go, I will write to your respective parents, and if they
are agreeable there's no reason why you shouldn't be in what was
recently German East Africa in less than a couple of months. But I
suppose you want time to consider matters?"
 Tiny looked at Colin, and Colin looked at Tiny. It was a case of
spontaneous mutual telepathy.

"No need for that, sir," declared Tiny, "we're on it—I mean, sir, we
are only too delighted."

"Rather, sir!" agreed Sinclair heartily. Then, suddenly remembering,

he added: "But I'm afraid, sir, the cost would be ... I don't mind
mentioning it before Desmond, because he knows. I've told him
about things at home. I'm afraid my people couldn't afford the
expense of a journey to Africa."

"That is a detail that can be gone into later," observed Dr. Narfield
mildly. "The question is, are you anxious to go?"

"Yes, sir," replied Colin simply.

"Very well," rejoined the Head. "That's all for the present. You may
go."

And with these somewhat ambiguous words ringing in their ears,

the two chums hurried out to discuss between themselves the
portentous event that loomed large on their mental horizon.

For his part, Dr. Narfield was as enthusiastic as the two lads over
the proposal. He had no doubt but that Desmond's people would
willingly give the required permission, especially in view of the fact
that the climate was in every way suited to effect Desmond's
complete recovery.

Sinclair's case was different. Although the Head was not aware by
the tone of Colin's father's letter of the extreme financial straits in
which Mr. Sinclair found himself, he was able to form a fairly
accurate opinion of the situation.

Had Mr. Desmond and Mr. Sinclair had the opportunity of

comparing notes, they would have seen an important difference in
the text of the Head's letter. In that to Colin's father Dr. Narfield
concluded with the bold announcement that "Your son's passage will
be paid." Nicholas Narfield believed in doing good turns by stealth.

And so, three days later, Tiny Desmond and Colin Sinclair were
informed that they were to hold themselves in readiness to sail on
S.S. Huldebras for Cape Town, en route to the wilds of East Africa.

CHAPTER III
FAREWELL

Next morning Colin Sinclair bade farewell to Stockmere School. It

cannot be said that he did so reluctantly. His mind was so full of the
tremendous adventure which confronted him that he hardly realised
he was passing another landmark in his career.

He had parted with his school-fellows amid unanimous good wishes

and envious regrets. Mr. Collier, his housemaster, gave him some
sound advice, which, seemingly falling upon deaf ears, served a
useful purpose before many months had passed. He also handed the
lad a small box wrapped up in brown paper—a gift that Colin
afterwards found to be a tabloid medicine chest.

The Head was moved to the verge of tears during his farewell
interview, at which Colin wondered. There seemed a vast difference
between the austere pedagogue and the frail, sympathetic man—yet
they were one and the same.

"And, Colin," he concluded, "I want you to accept and use this little
gift. You will find it more of a protection than a rifle."
 Sinclair took the proffered parcel with undisguised curiosity. By the
feel of it it was like a large revolver, which, he thought, was a
strange choice on the part of the learned Dr. Narfield. But when the
wrappings were removed a plated article that looked like a motor-
pump and carburetter was displayed.

"It's a filter," explained the Head. "Impure water is, as you know,
one of the greatest sources of disease in tropical countries. So
always filter your drinking water, Colin, and if it is possible, boil it as
well. One cannot be too careful in that respect. I remember as a
young man—eheu, fugaces—when I was engaged in a scientific
expedition in South America how a lack of pure water hampered our
work and endangered the health of the whole party. Well, good-bye,
Colin, and God-speed."

Ten minutes later Colin was bowling along towards Colbury

Monkton in a taxi. Then, and only then, did the thought strike him
that he was leaving Stockmere for good. He might see the school
again—he hoped he would as an Old Boy—but there was a chance
that he might not.

For the next six weeks—days that moved with leaden feet—Colin's
parents, brothers and sisters, cousins and aunts, busied themselves
with the preparations for the lad's departure. In spite of Dr.
Narfield's generosity in secretly providing the passage money, the
already seriously strained financial resources of the family were
severely taxed.

An outfit—a heavy expense even in pre-war days—had to be

procured. This, cut down as efficiency would permit, made quite a
hole in fifty pounds. Nothing superfluous was ordered since Mr.
Sinclair "knew the ropes" and strenuously resisted the blandishments
of the outfitter to purchase "necessaries" which more than likely
would never be required.
 At length the day prior to the sailing of the S.S. Huldebras arrived.
Colin, accompanied by his father, went up to London, where at an
hotel Tiny Desmond joined them.

Tiny had brought all the family with him—apparently because he

had no option in the matter. His outfit, too, was mountainous. Each
of his three trunks was larger than Colin's modest two metal-bound
boxes. His worldly goods were greatly superior to his chum's, but
Colin had something that Desmond, with all the wealth of his family
to back him, did not possess—good health.

"Simply had to bring all this stuff along, Colin," he explained

apologetically. "We'll share and share alike on this stunt. I've a
couple of fine .303 sporting rifles given me. Wish I could have
shown you, but they're packed. One's yours. Wonder who'll bag the
first lion? There are hundreds of them around Kilembonga, I'm told."

Desmond was excited, but even a casual observer could see that
the lad was far from well. His treatment under Dr. Anderson—he did
not leave Stockmere for a month after Colin's departure—had merely
arrested the progress of the malady. As the doctor had said, nothing
less than a prolonged stay in a warm, dry climate would effect a
cure.

At nine o'clock on the following morning the two chums went on

board. It was a bewildering sort of morning. They were shown their
respective berths by the busy steward, and, of course, Colin's father
and Tiny's swarm of relatives had to see their cabins. Since there
were hundreds of passengers and their friends all doing the same
sort of thing, there was little privacy and no opportunity for a quiet
farewell.

An hour later a bell rang and an order was given for all visitors to
leave the ship.

"Good-bye, my boy, and the best of luck," exclaimed Mr. Sinclair,

gripping his son's hand. The last farewells were exchanged, the
gangways clattered on the quay-side, and, bullied and cajoled by a
pair of fussy tugs, the Huldebras glided into the broad estuary of the
Thames.

Fainter and fainter dwindled the shouts from the wharf, until the
dense crowd of people vanished in the light mist that overhung the
river.

Then, under the impulse of her powerful engines, the good ship
gathered way and was fairly on her voyage.

"It seems too good to be true," exclaimed Tiny. "I hope I shan't
wake up and find it's all a dream."

CHAPTER IV
"REGARDLESS OF THE RISK"

The two chums berthed in separate cabins. On account of

Desmond's weak lungs he was compelled by the company's rules to
sleep in a part of the ship set apart for persons suffering from
pulmonary complaints.

Consequently Colin had to have another cabin-mate, since every

available berth had been booked weeks before the Huldebras was
due to sail.

When Colin went below to see to his cabin trunk, he found his
future "opposite number" engaged upon the same errand—a tall,
heavily-built bearded man of about forty years of age.
 "Don't apologise," said the man. "You have as much right here as I
have. We're cabin-mates, are we not? What is your name?"

Colin told him.

"Mine's Van der Wyck," volunteered the other. "Heard that name
before?"

"It's Dutch, isn't it?" asked Colin.

The bearded man laughed, displaying a double row of large white

teeth.

"Was once," he replied. "I'm an Afrikander; do you know what that

is? Well, a Boer, if you like! See that?"

He turned up his coat-sleeve, revealing a bluish mark on his

bronzed skin.

"That's a bullet wound," he continued. "I got that twenty years ago
at Paardeberg, fighting against the British. See that?"

Van der Wyck lifted one leg, and, pulling up the trouser-leg a few
inches, revealed the fact that he wore an artificial foot.

"Got that in 1916 fighting for the British in German East Africa," he
explained proudly. "Bit of a scrap close to a place called Kilembonga.
Don't suppose you've ever heard of the place."

"I have," declared Colin. "That's where I'm going."

"Allemachtag!" exclaimed the Afrikander. "I hope you will enjoy the
place better than I did. But, then, Fritz with a rifle is no longer there.
What are you going to Kilembonga for—ivory? There are plenty of
elephants, and lions, too."

"No, mining," replied Colin, "or, rather, mining engineering."

 Van der Wyck looked at his youthful cabin-companion with a
quizzical air.

"You would do better in the Witwatersrand," he observed, and

without offering any explanation, he busied himself with the
contents of his trunk.

For the next three days Colin kept to his bunk. His high hopes of
becoming a good sailor were rudely dashed, not exactly to the
ground, but somewhere else of a less solid nature. In nautical
parlance, he was "mustering his bag," or, in plain language, he was
horribly seasick.

All the way down Channel and across the Bay the Huldebras was
followed by a strong nor'-easterly wind, that made the ship roll far
worse than if she had encountered a head wind.

Colin had some slight satisfaction in the knowledge that he was not
the only passenger out of action with mal-de-mer. The steward, who
brought and took away twelve untasted meals, informed him that
only half-a-dozen of the second-class were up and about.

On the morning of the fourth day Colin dressed and went on deck.
He still felt far from well, but he was able to eat breakfast. There
was no sign of Tiny Desmond, and it was not until late that
afternoon that that very woe-begone-looking youth staggered out of
his cabin.

But before the Huldebras sighted Las Palmas Colin had recovered
his normal spirits, while Desmond looked better than he had done
for weeks past. The rest of the passengers, too, were finding their
sea-legs, and taking an interest in deck games.

In spite of the difference of ages, the two chums got on splendidly

with Van der Wyck. Apart from the fact that he knew the district to
which they were bound, he was a "thundering good sort." He
retained the quiet, unassuming manner of a veldt farmer, combined
with the experience gained by travelling in other portions of the
Empire to which he was proud to belong.

Like many of his veldt friends and neighbours, he had been an

ardent supporter of President Kruger, but the generous concessions
accorded the conquered Boers had speedily been vindicated. Except
for a minority, the Afrikanders were genuinely loyal to the British
Government.

"There is a very remarkable tribe living in the district around

Kilembonga," remarked Van der Wyck one evening, as the Afrikander
and the two chums were standing on a secluded portion of the
promenade deck, watching the sun set. The Huldebras was now
approaching the Tropics, steaming at seventeen knots through a
perfectly calm sea. From below came the strains of the ship's band
discoursing the music of the latest London comedy.

"Savages?" queried Tiny.

"Yes," replied Van der Wyck. "Savages with qualities that a good
many white men lack. The Makoh'lenga, as they call themselves, are
big fellows—the average height is six feet two—of a mixed stock.
Report has it that a Zulu impi, which had incurred the wrath of King
Dingaan, fled northwards more than eighty years ago and 'ate up'
almost every tribe they encountered until they struck the Arab races
inhabiting the region between Lakes Tanganyika and Victoria
Nyanza. Apparently Arab and Zulu blood fused, and the
Makoh'lengas were the result.

"Then the Huns got possession of the territory lately known as

German East, but they were unable to exercise any authority over
the Makoh'lengas. Even the Askaris—the German native levies—
failed to subdue them; and, as you probably may know, the Askaris
under Hun officers made admirable soldiers.

"Several expeditions into the Makoh'lenga territory resulted in

disaster, till at length the Askaris, also influenced by superstitious